Selections from Nature's womb & perhaps her grave

Item Type Thesis

Authors Frentzko, Brianna Nicole

Download date 06/10/2021 14:41:27

Link to Item http://hdl.handle.net/11122/10562 SELECTIONS FROM

NATURE'S WOMB & PERHAPS HER GRAVE

By

Brianna Nicole Frentzko, M.A.

A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

for the Degree of

Master of Fine Arts

in

Creative Writing

University of Alaska Fairbanks

May 2019

© 2019 Brianna Nicole Frentzko

APPROVED: Geraldine Brightwell, Committee Co-Chair Eileen Harney, Committee Co-Chair Rich Carr, Committee Member Sara Eliza Johnson, Committee Member Rich Carr, Chair Department of English Todd Sherman, Dean College of Liberal Arts Michael Castellini, Dean Graduate School ABSTRACT

Traversing a wintry landscape filled with desperate scavengers who cannot die, a witch awaits a prophecy to lead her people to the light. Meanwhile, in London, the addictive virtual reality of the Undercity tears a family apart. And, on a distant island long ago, a young girl befriends an enigmatic sailor who emerges from under the sea on top a tattered black ship. These three worlds and the women within them are connected by a single choice made long ago that ripples through time and pushes them towards their own evolving destinies.

This thesis comprises the first two of five sections (“books”) in a novel entitled Nature's

Womb & Perhaps Her Grave. Book I, “In Chains of Darkness,” follows Witch-Woman, a crone living in a world of night and snow. When she adopts the mysterious Twice-Born-Child, Witch­

Woman must navigate raising her defiant daughter as well as protecting Village by River from the threat of starvation or invading wild-ones. Book II, “The City of Ghosts,” depicts the struggles of five women in a dysfunctional family. Elena tries to retrieve her daughter from the

Undercity, Orpah awaits her opportunity to plug in to virtual reality, Ruth attempts to prevent the maidservant from bearing her son-in-law's baby, Deborah works to save her sister from damnation, and Beatrice must decide what to do with the illegitimate child she carries in her womb. All the while, London ticks closer and closer to the day when the real world will give way to the virtual dreams of the Undercity.

Playing with Judea-Christian mythos and science fiction themes, Nature's Womb &

Perhaps Her Grave is, at its heart, a story about mothers and daughters confronting the dangerous power, tremendous responsibility, and unforeseen consequences of rebellion.

i ii TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... i TABLE OF CONTENTS ...... iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... iv PRELUDE: ADUMBRATIONS ON WHAT WILL COME...... 1 BOOK I: IN CHAINS OF DARKNESS...... 9 Telling Tree...... 10 Burning ...... 16 Twice-Born-Child...... 24 Dafaalan and Rites...... 32 Bubble-place ...... 44 Change ...... 52 BOOK II: THE CITY OF GHOSTS...... 59 Elena ...... 60 Countdown: 5 Days ...... 93 Ruth ...... 99 Countdown: 3 Days ...... 134 Deborah...... 141 Countdown: 2 Days ...... 172 Beatrice ...... 177 Countdown: 1 Day...... 218 Sunday ...... 225 Ashes to Ashes ...... 250 SUMMARY OF BOOKS III-V...... 269

iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my advisor Gerri Brightwell for offering such continuous support on this project over the last three years. Her class gave me the assignment that started this novel on a dark winter night, and her feedback has pushed the story to places I never thought it would go. I am so grateful to have worked with Gerri during my time in Alaska, and I know that I am a better writer through her guidance.

Thank you to the rest of my committee. Rich Carr, Eileen Harney, and Sara Eliza

Johnson read this long manuscript on top of my MA thesis and offered such insightful critiques and ideas during my defense. I am especially grateful to Sara for her thoughts on language in

Book II and helping me to achieve the oral-story feeling I wanted. Thank you to Zoe Jones for stepping in at the last minute as an outside examiner and managing to somehow read all of these pages in such a short time.

My gratitude extends to all those who have workshopped sections of this novel during class. In particular, a big thank you to Sarah Small for pushing this story to become more complex in its treatment of religion, Andrew Luft for inadvertently turning paradise into an

Island, and Micah Allen for challenging me to break some rules.

Charlotte Wheeler has my eternal gratitude for being there on the darkest day when I nearly abandoned this story. Jaclyn Bergamino and Kendell Newman Sadiick's confidence in my first novel indirectly gave me the courage to write this more ambitious one.

This book would not have reached completion without my novel writing club. Thank you to Heather Aruffo and Venus Fultz for believing in this story, loving the characters nearly as much as I do, and offering so much emotional support. You are extraordinary friends and gifted writers whose books I eagerly await.

iv Lastly, thank you to the late great Paula Blank, who long ago told me to wait before embarking this particular literary journey. You were quite right.

v vi PRELUDE: ADUMBRATIONS ON WHAT WILL COME

The ship with the black sails tore from under the sea like a shard of obsidian, spewing foam upwards with a shattering wail that shook the coconuts down to the hot sand below. Rising high into the air, the black sails cut into the noon-bright sky. Then, they sank beneath the surface only to rise again higher than before.

White-capped waves crashed against the Island, startling the birds into panicked flight above us. For a moment, the flock blocked the sun, and it was as night. We shivered.

Goosebumps broke out over our naked arms and legs. We smelled fire, and our tongues tasted cloying copper as if we were made to swallow our own blood.

The waves battered the sand, but then, as the black sails righted themselves on the tumultuous waters, the sea suddenly stood still.

It was becalmed.

Waves stopped, and the water turned to glass. The black sails were held suspended atop the water, a toy ship on an endless mirror.

We saw all the Island reflected in that sea and wondered whether we could see ourselves too, but we were too far away, high up in a mango tree playing at being birds.

“What was that?”

I signaled my own confusion with the signs we had developed to allow me to speak, but

Adam was not looking at me then. His eyes were turned to the ocean.

As if responding to our questions, the sea breathed in a strong breath. The birds resettled, the sun shone once more, and the waves turned back to gentle strokes against the shore.

1 The Island chattered its cheerful afternoon songs again.

I looked to the shore, but the black ship had disappeared.

*

Seven days before London's destruction, the woman currently known as Esther Smith considered her options. She sat in her alcohol-soaked room, watching the sky flush pink. The very last of the Scotch still burned hot in her belly like the final caress of a dead lover. Three old bottles, empty of their once-dear contents, lined her windowsill. The bottles reflected the morning light through gentle green, blue, and black filters so that the pink of the sunrise danced with the sea-glass hues of her childhood in the north. When Essie looked into the mirror above her bed, her eyes were clear and wary. Her bare broad shoulders rolled backwards, and she creaked her head from side to side. She remembered doing yoga with her niece at the crack of dawn and the smell of salt and brine mixed with lavender deodorant as the wine-dark sea met the shore.

She hugged the old laptop with her legs, re-reading the message. It was up to her. None of them had wanted their names connected with this decision, and none of them had wanted to be the last. But the die had been cast and here she found herself. It was a puerile concern; Operation

Firestorm would leave no evidence of the choice she was about to make nor the people who had made it.

Essie's niece's name was Virgil. She looked like Essie's brother Dan but if Dan had become a doll. Somewhere far from this room, perhaps a slightly more grown-up Virgil slept through the dawn as Dan whittled driftwood into images of saints and demons on the creaking

2 old deck of their shared childhood. His wife undoubtedly sat beside him with her morning tea in hand, watching the sunrise over the sea. After Operation Firestorm the ocean would still greet the sun, but few would admire the way the waves reflected the light.

Perhaps all of them were morally culpable, but the others could at least hide behind their hope that someone else would show mercy. She could not. Essie did not believe in any gods or divine will, not even after discovering the Grand Truth. She believed in power. She believed in judgment. She believed in freedom. Now, thinking of the family she had abandoned two identities ago, she entertained her own godhood with eyes wide open. Fully sober for the first time since she had uncovered the dark secret underwriting the world of sleepers, and well-aware of the consequences her actions would bring, she carefully typed the last sequence of the code.

There was no turning back now; they had no way of stopping the process. She speculated what thoughts would filter through Dan's head when the time came. What her other brothers would be doing. Where her nieces and nephews would spend their last moments. She hoped Virgil would wake to enjoy the sunrises left to her.

Deliberately, Essie rose to her window, staring at the three glittering glass bottles. And, slowly, as if her actions were preordained, she reached forward and pushed. The bottles fell backwards off the sill and through the glass-less window.

They crashed downwards, down and down for three stories. She did not watch but saw them with her mind's eye suspended high in the air and then descending and gathering speed as they hurtled towards the unforgiving ground.

*

3 In the quiet of the midnight sun, after the Island sounds had faded, after the light had

turned to the soft orange twilight of its lowest point on the horizon, after Adam and I had fallen

to our sleep, the Sailor finally emerged from the ship with the black sails. From somewhere

beneath the sea a figure pushed itself out, swimming upwards from depths unknown, and finally standing tall in the knee-deep waters of the sandbar. Bright eyes turned towards the shore.

Bathed in red light from the large, lazy sun hugging the sea, the figure walked slowly with the

waves. The sun fell in love with the shape of the creature from below, turning a blushing gaze to

outlining the curves and creases, trying to make solid One as fluid and slippery as water.

I do not know what form the Sailor took that first night, but I do know footprints

appeared on the shore leading to our bower and these footprints led all the way up to the very

edges of our grass bed. We slept unafraid, innocent as newborns, curled around each other, the

earthen cave cradling us in its warm womb.

Later, I was told a hand reached down and brushed the hair from my eyes, and I sighed in

my sleep, accepting the caress. My face formed a gentle smile, and I subconsciously reached up to

grasp the Sailor's hand, my little fingers curling tight around a thumb. I slept. On the Island we

never dreamed, not then, not yet.

When I woke in the quiet night, I was alone with only Adam's snores for company. The

ever-present sun chased away any shadows I could have turned to monsters, leaving me with the

soft gloom of pretend-darkness. My hand went to my cheek. Large footprints traced a circular

pattern through our home.

I did not know enough to be afraid.

I stood, shivering, and traced the footprints in the earth with one small hand. Without

thinking, feeling as if I was still asleep, I rose. My small foot found a home in the larger print.

4 I followed the imprints around and around our sleeping quarters and then out along the

river bank leading to the sea. One set coming and one set going away. I walked in the Sailor's

steps to the beach, shivering in the night air. I had to jump and run to keep my footprints

contained inside the Sailor's. It was like a game Adam and I would play. Twice, I thought about turning around and waking Adam so that he could join me, but each time I dismissed the

thought, eager for the first time in my young life to have an adventure alone.

The sand was warm beneath my feet, and I smelled sweet fruits mixing with the salty air.

Nighttime quiet broke only with the breeze and the ever-present murmur of the waves. I was

unused to a world without the noises of the birds. The quality of light was different than day, an

orange-pink haze that felt unreal.

When I arrived at the edge of the Island, I realized the trail disappeared into the sea. I

gazed out across the waters, hesitating, but then I walked into the waves. The path seemed to

head directly for the sun which slept half in and half out of the waters.

A sandbar extended in a wide circle from the Island, and I knew I could walk for an hour

without ever sinking. The water went only to my waist, and the waves were tender rolls. Small

clouds of dust rose from my passage in the clear waters, and the current was already erasing my

progress as it erased that of my quarry.

I kept following the path farther and farther out to sea until finally reaching the end of the

sandbar. Here, the waters dropped suddenly to deep blue. The footprints forward had faded with

the tides some time before—I had wandered forward directly towards the bright orange ball of

light. My feet would take me no farther; I had reached the end of my world. In front of me, I

could no longer see the bottom of the sea in its inky depths. My eyes gazed down into the

5 darkness below, which was deeper than anything I had ever seen before, as if the sea plummeted downwards forever.

Perhaps it did.

Goosebumps broke out on the back of my neck, and I felt a tingle of fear and something else, some excitement I could not fully understand. I gazed at the endless sapphire, watching the sun move fully above the line of the horizon and turn the water gold. My hair flew backwards behind me with the morning wind.

I stood there searching for a very long time before I saw what I thought to be a bird bobbing up and down on the horizon. The shape came closer, and I realized it was not a bird. It was blue and bright, the sun turning it to a beacon from which I shielded my eyes. The waters brought it to me: a smooth gourd.

I bent and retrieved the object from the abyss, keeping my balance on the sandbar. The gourd felt like the water itself, and it was as hollow as a coconut dried of milk.

My gaze returned to the horizon, but nothing else came to me from the sea, nor any explanation for the strange blue object I now held.

Adam found me there at daybreak, asleep on my knees on the sandbar at the very edge of destruction. He gazed at the smooth blue gourd as dumbfounded as I felt. I tried to explain the footprints, but the last trace of the Sailor had been swept away with the early morning winds and the ever-present waves.

*

Essie sat on her bed staring out her window. Something worried at her, as if she had been in the midst of a task forgotten or had woken from a dream which was rapidly slipping away

6 from her conscious mind. Something was wrong. Some vital piece in the dance had been skipped over, and now she stood three steps ahead of the music while the room looked on quizzically.

She felt this way whenever she was plugged into one of her virtual realities, the ones she programmed with easy tells. Her mind was on the verge of giving her the answer—her eyes flickered back again and again to the open window—but she could not pin down the disquiet except to know it was overwhelming.

The window. Something was wrong with the window.

But what?

Above her she heard the barking of Beatrice's dog and Ruth shouting at her daughter

Deborah. The front door of the immense crumbling townhouse thudded shut with a dull bang, and something, perhaps the last bit of glass above the door downstairs, shattered. She heard a cry of alarm and more footsteps.

“BEATRICE!”

Ruth was shouting for the young maid, no doubt to clean up the glass. Essie closed her eyes and imagined Beatrice emerging from her room, bleary-eyed and still in a nightgown, going forth to meet Ruth's demands.

The household with which Essie currently boarded was only a passing concern to her now. Old Ruth's anguish over turning a family heirloom into firewood, Deborah's mania for keeping the house clean and tidy, Beatrice's refusal to give her dog over for supper, even Barak's drive to hold together the vestiges of Parliament, all these things paled in comparison to the truth that was soon to sweep over the world. For a moment, she thought to tell them all. She could shout it from the rooftops to all who would listen. It was in her power to warn them the end was near and cleaning up broken glass from the floor was hardly a concern worth holding.

7 But surely all of London knew the Earth was gasping its last breaths already. Essie could not make them seize the day if they continued to stubbornly close their eyes. Let it be, then.

As she released herself from this responsibility, she suddenly knew what was wrong. The truth crashed to the front of her mind and now she could not un-see it. Her eyes turned again towards the window. It was an obvious thing. Too obvious really.

When the door crashed shut and shattered the glass, the rest of the household had reacted to the noise. Ruth had shouted for Beatrice. Doors had opened, and footsteps had sounded.

But the house had remained quiet when Essie pushed the bottles from her window. No one had screamed. No one had rushed out the front door. No one had come to her room.

She had never heard the bottles shatter.

Essie ran to the window and looked down, but no broken glass littered the street.

8 BOOK I: IN CHAINS OF DARKNESS

9 Telling Tree

When ravens peck at bones atop homes, Village by River knows coldest cold ends.

Charm breaks, Village wakes. So-say grandmothers. Listen close, hear their words.

So so so.

Village peers through its windows, slow-rubbing sleep from eyes.

Still alive. We cannot die. Still alive, alive, alive.

Village lives on after charm-sleep like death, dead-sleep of moons countless. One body becomes many as lovers separate and elders birth babes from under cloaks. Village shivers. Fires light.

Warmth in cold. We need fire always fire to fight cold.

Now hunger stirs within. Cooking begins. Salty-dank smells of meat fill homes. Swirling smoke turns air snow-solid. Village swims through smoke, choke-cough-choke, and feeds its peoples. Rumble-tumble-tummies filled. Warm stew, thick stew.

Empty no more. We are content.

Out from smoke into air cold and colder. Breath white and frozen. Young ones drag-dig through snow, clearing paths.

Grandmothers light candles and thank Witch-Woman in Woods for her charm-magic.

We survive. Again. We survive. Why why why?

Babes stay inside warm belly-homes. They stay as one before windows to watch hundreds of black specks plunging through twisting trees, trees made dark by green and violet light dancing across black skies. Ravens like pieces of shining gloom falling downwards downwards down down

10 Down.

Ravens like soot-snow on frozen hills. Ravens big as child coffins, wings spread as far as arms can reach. Eyes glow crimson. Metallic feathers black as sky. Mechanized scavengers feeding on decay. They bright-shine. They tick-tick-tick away their lives.

Tick-tick-tick-tick, click-click-click-click goes Raven. Tick-click-quick-trick comes

Raven. Tick of heart, tick of wings, circuit tick-tick-ticking sings.

When ravens come for bodies of frozen dead, coldest cold becomes just cold. When ravens take bones, Village leaves homes, Village roams, Village atones. Or so-say grandmothers.

So-so-so.

See, ravens tell Village it survives. It survives another coldest cold. It awakes from charm-sleep once more. Alive. Village does not turn Empty. Village lives safe. Village screams not. Safe and safer. Best Below.

But ravens remind Village that Dark remains, and others, nameless wicked things, others sure-survive as well.

*

Ravens raining on her roof wake Witch-Woman from her slumber every passing year.

Clatter-clatter claws. Shuddering shrieks when snow falls in sheets where ravens disturb it.

Coldest cold breaks; Witch-Woman wakes. Such be ways of our world. Grandmothers say-so.

So-so-so.

And, every year, Witch-Woman sighs, pushing her fur blanket. And, every year, she stretches, her bones creaking, creaking, creaking from her long sleep. Like old grizzled bears

11 rising from dreams, so Witch-Woman throws up her dark bald head and slow-gains her feet.

Gnarly fingers stretching, stretching. Orange dancing light from her fire casting shadows on oak

walls. Her cabin fills with thick smoke from bubbling brews of her sweet-smelling poisons. No

one attends them during coldest cold, but magic keeps them ready. Her tongue catches hints of

iron from some empty wild-one hanging in her kitchen and slow-dripping red drops into her

cauldron. Drip-drop, drip-drop. Wild-one returns to whatever foul place he comes from now that

body empties.

Witch-Woman smears deer-fat on dry hands. She looks at click-clock through swirling

smoke and watches little arrows moving together at XII. Near-time. Near-time. Morgana rubs her

whiskered face against leg of Witch-Woman. She stays small in cat-form. Her lone green eye

gleams through dim lighting and reminds Witch-Woman, accuses her of delaying. Little blue

charm on her collar glitters bright.

Out to Telling Tree she must go. Always out to Telling Tree. To remember to forget. To

keep her bargain. To take up her task.

She wants it not! But there be no way out now. Promises need keeping.

Morgana purrs, and Witch-Woman slow-walks down stairs to her coats. Stairs creak. One

after another, on coats go. Until magic coat goes on last with its warmth inside, magic coat given

in Early Days, in time right after Ladeen falls.

Boots for feet. Hat over bald head. Snowshoes. One foot. Another. Gloves for hands.

Deep breaths. Morgana standing close.

Careful, Grandmother, do not freeze.

Witch-Woman pushes her front door open with all her strength, she pushes past frozen ice keeping it shut.

12 Always then cold rushes, pounding past Witch-Woman, demanding heat within. Always

then cold murders warmth. Harsh cold; Witch-Woman gasps for breath, feels breath freeze inside

her.

Witch-Woman shivers, Morgana sputters. They brave cold, see.

Both step out, fighting cold. Snow, snow, snow. And nostrils of Witch-Woman freeze, and her eyelashes turn to ice crystal.

Shivering keeps bodies warm, Grandmother.

Ravens pause on her roof. They pick and pick until bones clean. Clean bones Witch­

Woman can use for grinding, for spelling, for casting. Witch-Woman and Morgana ignore ravens

except for respect-nods. Ravens nod back and continue their work, sharp beaks red with thawing

blood. Tick-tick-ticking like click-clock. Raven red eyes gleaming in Witch-Woman's orange

cabin glow, raven red eyes reflecting violet and green lights dancing in Dark.

Witch-Woman looks to Morgana, and Morgana steps into snow first. Morgana starts to

shake, and emerald light glows from her. Then she grows and grows. Morgana now stands in her

biggest form, taller than Witch-Woman and wide enough to ride. But, big as she becomes,

Morgana still sinks, snow eating up her white tiger body. Round white ears point out of snow,

and Morgana grumble-growls. Witch-Woman cackles, cackles, even though laughter hurts,

freezes, lets cold into her lungs.

-Be right, it be, she says to Morgana. Too much magic have you.

Morgana stretches and rises on her hind legs, dwarfing Witch-Woman. She shakes and

throws snow at her human companion. Witch-Woman snorts and glares. Face of Morgana looks

to be smiling. Then, Morgana falls forward and walks, making paths with her bigger form.

13 Witch-Woman takes out her white-flash and shines it to see her red rope. Red as blood.

Snow tries to eat her red rope, to bury it deep, but Red Rope stays stubborn. It hangs strong between porch of Witch-Woman and Telling Tree. Witch-Woman grasps her red rope every year. Holds it tight in thick-gloved hands every year.

And out she steps into snow. Even with path of Morgana, snow eats her up to her sagging breasts. Cold invades her tiny body. Witch-Woman charges forward, pushing past snow and cold.

Holding tight to Red Rope. Following Morgana.

Snow hard after coldest cold. Snow hurts after coldest cold. Even Morgana in body of large cat feels cold. Much of snow turns to ice. Witch-Woman steps from paw print to paw print, holding to Red Rope when she stumbles. White-flash spins up and down, catching whiteness or reaching into endless black.

Each step snow eats her up. Eats her up. Gobble, gobble. Each breath cold claims her, steals her warmth. Witch-Woman shivers and pushes. She tastes blood in her mouth and can hear her heart frantic-pounding in her chest.

When she comes near to Telling Tree, only her memories of Before can keep her going on another step. Before when there remains Sun and light and warmth. Before. Before. Before. In

Ladeen Before. She agrees to her journey Before, Witch-Woman knows. She makes her bargain

Before. She must go on now.

Morgana meows when Witch-Woman reaches Telling Tree. She places her paws up on knot of Telling Tree, staring at Baramata. And, every year, Witch-Woman thinks Morgana will uproot Telling Tree and end their shared quest. But she does not, even though Tree shakes and snow falls from it.

Witch-Woman looks to Baramata.

14 But needle points down and down to left towards symbols Witch-Woman cannot read. It moves not to middle, not to symbol she waits for.

Not yet.

And Witch-Woman does not cry, even though it has been so long. Time comes not. She feels great sorrow, but she does not cry. She remembers to forget.

Beside her, Morgana lets her one green eye fast-fall. Then Witch-Woman turns, not crying, not remembering, and Morgana turns, green eye looking up at ghost-lights in sky, and

Morgana leads them through their darkness home.

*

In Cabin, Witch-Woman summons raven. She writes message to Dafaalan: Not yet.

And answer comes during moon-dark-time: We know.

In Cabin, Witch-Woman summons raven. She writes message to grandmothers in

Village: Not yet.

And answer comes during moonrise: How much longer must we wait?

15 Burning

Because she has most years. Because none live so long. Because she remembers Ladeen.

Because she remembers Before and Before That. Because she thinks there was Before Before

That. Because she acts crazy. Because she talks sane. Because she makes sense. Because she speaks truths. Because there exists no truth left to speak. Because she tells them stories. Because they hold great fear. Because wild-ones and beasties and metal men come to all but her. Because wild-ones and beasties and metal men fear her. Because she does not try to scare them. Because she terrifies them. Because she has power. Because she rules over Village from Forest. Because

Village has no ruler. Because no rules survive. Because she makes her own rules. Because she lives Before. Because she remembers. Because she knows magic and where to gather herbs.

Because magic seems real now. Because she claims magic remains false. Because she calls herself Witch-Woman. Because her real name stays hidden. Because names have power.

Because there lives nothing else. Because Morgana. Because Morgana loves her. Because she has beauty once. Because she lays with none even during rites of warmest cold. Because no one can imagine her young or beautiful. Because she names her wrinkles. Because her eyes see too much. Because she remembers. Because she chooses to forget. Because she fails to remember to forget everything. Because she bears their pain. Because they must live on and on and on.

Because their world has no fairness. Because Death ends nothing now.

Village fears Witch-Woman.

*

16 Huntress and Deer-Born from Village see signs of wild-ones first. First footprints in

hunting grounds. Trails in snow. Smell of smoke in distance when hunters camp from Village.

Then Huntress and Deer-Born see band of wild-ones through trees. They hide in snow trap and

wait and wait. Laughter and shouting. Wild-ones pass. They count fifty-three wild-ones. Too

many for Village to fight.

Wild-ones camp only one moon-walk from Village.

Huntress and Deer-Born run home through moon-dark-time to warn grandmothers of

Village. They hide tracks with pine-brushes and bless snowfall when it comes.

Village holds breath. Wild-ones come not here, it tells itself. Wild-ones stay from Village

this warmest-cold. Village tells itself these lies every warmest-cold. Sometimes Village right. But

only sometimes.

Other Villages trade stories with Village by River. They say wild-ones grow strong again.

More and more escape from prisons Elsewhere through Dafaalan births. More and more band

together. Wild-ones attack Village on Hilltop and survivors make great dole as most of Village

empties to Elsewhere. Village near Mountain disappears one moon-dark-time and disbands to

form roaming troops. Some of Village near Mountain join with wild-ones, so-say many. Rumors

start every year mid-warmest-cold.

—War it be, whispers grandmother of Village in Forest to grandmother of Village by

River. War like to wars long time a-gone. Dafaalan come not to our aid. They come not to our

part of Below until Rites, and they come two moon cycles from now.

Village lights no fires outside cabins. Mothers forbid children of Village to roam far.

Elders hold council. During coldest-cold, Village by River safest of places for charms of Witch­

Woman. At end of warmest-cold, when Dafaalan come for Rites, they feel safe again. But now,

17 in mid-warmest-cold, protection comes not from charms or freezing or Dafaalan. Wild-ones too close to Village.

—Go to forest, I shall, says Huntress. Seek council of Witch-Woman.

Grandmothers all agree, and Huntress goes forth from Village to Cabin in Woods for to meet with Witch-Woman. Deer-Born comes with her.

—Should we go from Village, Grandmother in Forest? Huntress asks Witch-Woman, holding tight to hand of Deer-Born.

Witch-Woman casts bones of wild-one she charms and empties in forest. Signs whisper:

Run, run, run.

—Leave Village, Witch-Woman tells Huntress. Wild-ones come.

And many women lead men and children from Village to Bubble-places or woods or other hiding places for to wait out wild-ones until Dafaalan come for Rites.

But not all. Not all. Not all.

Not all.

—Village safe as safe can be, says Trail-Maker. I stay with mine. All stay with me. Wars come not here.

Three moonrises from her decision, wild-ones come, and Trail-Maker empties to fires

Under Mountain.

*

Witch-Woman goes to Village after it burns. Wild-ones start leave-taking, and Witch­

Woman sees orange-red fire glow through dark. Witch-Woman goes down through trees riding

18 Morgana big as she can be. Witch-Woman and Morgana and their sleigh. Witch-Woman and

Morgana wait on top of her hill looking over River. Wild-ones see Witch-Woman, but they have fear of her.

They do not come for her. They stay busy.

Their sleighs fill with meat and breeders. Witch-Woman watches one young woman, naked, thrown over two sleighs. Wild-ones already inside her, and she turns blue, blue from cold.

She cannot scream because wild-ones use her mouth too. Witch-Woman wonders if she empties from cold or from pain. Others call her Small-Foot, and she empties to Village not to Elsewhere.

Three other breeders stay covered in fur and tied to sleighs: son of Trail-Maker, daughter of

Small-Foot, and Wolf-Slayer. Witch-Woman hears their sobbing and screams. Better to turn meat than breeder. Some meat-made empty to Elsewhere, true-true, but even Elsewhere needs must be better than breeder life.

Most of Village escapes, Witch-Woman thinks. Most escape.

Not all.

Once wild-ones leave, once screams die away, Witch-Woman rides Morgana down into

Village, its cabins still on fire. So bright, she shields her eyes. Too bright. Like Sun in times

Before. Her eyes slow-adjust. In light of fire, Witch-Woman sees five poles high in air with heads of elders. Metal ravens settle on top of poles. They eat eyes. Heads do not freeze yet because of raging fire heat, but blood trails freeze down their faces like tears.

Witch-Woman hobbles off Morgana and nods to ravens. They ignore her. They click­ click-click as fire crackles. Witch-Woman thinks this be warmest warmth she remembers feeling for long time-gone. Fire big enough to kill cold.

19 Morgana shrinks and helps Witch-Woman search for meat. Wild-ones cannot take all meat. Sleighs not large enough. Most people run away. Most escape. But not all.

Not all.

As fire roars and smoke fills their lungs, Witch-Woman and Morgana search, search in snow and soot and flames. Witch-Woman finds two arms still bloody. One frozen leg. One boy­ child dead and charred. Naked. Bloody. Meat for her table.

Much meat burns. It smells like roasting. Witch-Woman feels saliva in her mouth. She licks her dry lips. Hunger gnaws at her stomach. Juicy cooking meat roasts in fire. Flames go too high and fire too wild to enter cabins of roasting corpses.

Morgana finds more meat. Girl-baby. Empty. Left in sleigh covered in blood. All red with blood. No breathing. No pulse. Cabin burns and fills with smoke. Body not frozen yet.

Witch-Woman puts girl-baby-meat in her bag with boy-meat and two arms and one leg. She slings both over Morgana. They cough through thick smoke. So warm. Both sit by Village next to frozen River and watch fire crackling. They enjoy warmth.

Soon hunger grows more important than warmth. Morgana gets big and bigger. Witch­

Woman puts meat in her sleigh. She hobbles on to back of Morgana.

They cross River for her woods, for her hill.

And then sleigh of Witch-Woman lurches. Ice thin and thinner from raging fire of

Village. Ice starts to crack. It cracks and cracks.

Sleigh starts to fall through ice.

Witch-Woman screams: Off, off, get small! Sleigh off! Get sleigh off! Get small,

Morgana! Get small!

20 Morgana obeys and slips out of her halter, little blue charm on her collar shaking. Sleigh of Witch-Woman falls through and through. Cracking ice in every direction. Hands reach up through cracks. Bleeding bloated hands of drowning wraiths. Their whispers turn to screams and they claw out of ice.

—No more drowning! Set us free! Drown with us or set us free!

—Meat! Need meat! Witch-Woman howls.

Witch-Woman dives for ropes on her big bag, kneeling on cracking ice and moving away from hands. One grabs her ankle, and she falls forward. Morgana leaps to join her, sinking teeth into coat of Witch-Woman. Both tug on rope of sleigh as ice cracks around them and drowning wraiths pull themselves out from under ice. Bloated faces and sunken eyes. Lips sucking like fish. Blinking in fire light, hiding from fire light. Eyes cannot bear light.

—Come out, bag! Witch-Woman pulls bag with meat. But now wraiths pull from other end, dead eyes closing against light.

Sleigh sinks into water. Wraiths rip it to pieces.

Then, sudden-like, one chubby hand reaches out from cold water. Not wraith hand. Little girl hand. Witch-Woman grabs little-girl hand and yanks up girl-baby she took empty from

Village. Wraiths grab her, but Witch-Woman strong and stronger and takes girl-baby away from them.

Ice cracks in all directions, many drowning wraiths now walk on ice or swim for shore.

Witch-Woman cradles girl-baby in her arms, eyes wide with shock.

Girl-baby, once empty, fills.

*

21 And so, long time after Before, Ladeen turns legend and then Village forgets legend. And so, long time after Before, snow-melt turns to child rhyme-rite and joking-laughs. And so, long time after Before, Sun means naught to none but Dafaalan.

Before sees not long time after Before.

Long time after Before, Witch-Woman stands on frozen River at moonset and makes great joy. She holds girl-child born again from beneath ice. Girl-child who empties and now fills again. Village burns bright and brighter, so child looks orange-pink in light. Twice-Born opens blind eyes, and they gleam silver in glow of fire.

Survivors of Village move to edge of River as sure-shelter burns. They choke smoke, gargle frozen air. Blink and blinking in fire too bright. Village knows dark only. Fire blinds it.

Eyes of Village aching sore.

Wraiths rise from cracks in ice, cracks fire makes with warmth. Wraiths bloated blobs like to seal but human still. Fish mouths suck air greedy-grabbing. But wraiths cover eyes from fire bright. Village shrinks from wraiths. Witch-Woman sees them not, but big cat of Witch­

Woman snarls and spits at river wraiths to keep them far and farther.

—She lives! Witch-Woman says. Her voice new-snow-soft.

Village believes it not! Village believes not child lives. Blood of child spills through

Village snow, and child empties. All see. Wraiths walk wild above cracking ice. Village burns.

Empty child fills. What happens to world?

Child cannot fill again in same body. Too much blood covers snow.

But Twice-Born fills. She fills in arms of Witch-Woman and cries like to her first cry.

22 Witch-Woman knows it comes as first sign. In times long gone, Dafaalan promise her such. Child comes to her after much waiting. Her child. Her child comes.

—You mine, Witch-Woman coos. You all mine.

—Forget not your bargain, whispers River.

—Forget not what you learn last time, whispers Wind.

—Forget not who you be, whispers Dark.

Witch-Woman bundles child under coat and listens not.

She takes baby-girl home. Wet clothes come off quick, and Witch-Woman wraps child in blankets and magic coat and sets her by fire. With rags, she tries to soak up blood from hair of girl-baby, but though her rag stains crimson each time, blood remains like dye. After moon circles twice in dark sky, Twice-Born stays warm but skin stays white as snow. Eyes stay silver. It be many moons before Witch-Woman realizes her child has blindness.

23 Twice-Born-Child

Village feels shame it lets Twice-Born live with Witch-Woman.

—She belongs with us, says Village when first Witch-Woman takes her. She not like you.

It tells her so, Village reminds itself. It tells her to give Twice-Born back. Village tells her she should not have children in Cabin. Village says it feels wrong. Twice-Born should be with her own kind, she should.

Witch-Woman says: You take child from me, no more help will I give you. You brave coldest cold without my enchantment. Never will you get remedies or spell-casts against wild- ones. No more.

Village has great fear now of wild-ones, and it must rebuild before coldest-cold. It can fight no more. No more. So Village lets her keep her wailing little one because it needs Witch­

Woman. For all her taking of empty-ones and her sending many to pains below, Witch-Woman protects Village. She keeps it safe from coldest-cold. Her charm saves most from wild-ones. She helps Village. She, Morgana, and Dafaalan make spell that hides Village. And so Village decides to leave Twice-Born-Child to her fate.

—One child for one Village, sad-says Arrow-Sender. And then she hangs her head in shame.

Perhaps Village gives up so quick because no one knows from where Twice-Born comes.

No one knows who carries her in belly or who fathers her. No one remembers seeing her before.

Some believe she empties as wraith from below ice and be not of Village. Some believe wild- ones abandon her. If she come from Village, none claim her.

Let Witch-Woman keep her then.

24 To surprise of Village, Witch-Woman does not empty Twice-Born. Baby Twice-Born cries and crawls. Time passes. Twice-Born walks and talks. Small words. She stays small, her bloody hair only to waist of Witch-Woman. She starts asking questions when still small. She walks out to Village when still small and spies on her old people. Village shows kindness to her but dares not think her Village-born. Whatever she be before second-birth, she enchanted child now. Child brought back from emptiness and raised by Witch-Woman. Her silver eyes speak of old magic and Dafaalan-birth. Half-Dafaalan common enough, but she strange. Unnatural.

Village keeps its children from Twice-Born.

—Lonely she must be, says Gentle-Hands, holding tight to her daughter Fat-Cheeks when

Twice-Born passes. If only times turn different.

Twice-Born not like other children. No, no. She sinks to bottom of snow drifts but still keeps going out into cold. She loses not one toe or one finger to black-freeze! It bothers her little, cold. And dark bothers her not at all. She has blindness but finds trails when sure-sighted in

Village cannot. Village murmurs when Twice-Born sleeps in snow or when once metal-men carry her off only for Morgana to bring her back. Once, wild-ones camp next to where Twice-

Born lies in wood, and they come across child sleeping, but instead of emptying or raping or eating Twice-Born, they cover her with furs.

—She looks like queer-child, says leader of wild-ones. (Huntress overhears and tells tale.) We leave her in peace, we do. She strange.

So Twice-Born drifts through woods and sleeps through snows of her childhood, climbing down pine-covered hills and skating across frozen rivers. She comes near to Village but has no part in it. Village watches and wonders what will come of it all.

25 *

One moonrise ten coldest-colds after her second birth, Twice-Born asks Witch-Woman why she goes to Baramata at Telling Tree after every coldest-cold.

—Why you not wait? Twice-Born asks. Why you not wait for coldest cold to go-way?

Why, why go so soon? Why then?

—Stir stew, Witch-Woman tells her. No worrying about Telling Tree and me.

Twice-Born shakes her blood-red hair out of silver eyes and reaches with her hands for stirring stick. Her eyes stare straight out, sightless. Claw-like hands of Witch-Woman close over baby fingers of Twice-Born and guide her to stir-stick. It sticks in eye socket of skull on their table. Twice-Born pushes away hands when Witch-Woman tries to guide her to their stew.

—Can do it by self! Twice-Born says.

—Only helping, Witch-Woman soft-answers.

—No need helping! Can do it, Twice-Born burns her hand on hot stew pot but does not wince. She puts stir-stick into stew.

—Why you go to Baramata? Meaning-make for me.

—Stir stew, Twice-Born-Child.

—Answer first. I no stir stew until answer comes.

Witch-Woman sighs: Grown folk must do things they like not.

Twice-Born drops stir-stick and folds arms over chest: Meaning-make for me!

Witch-Woman quiets. She thinks like this: She goes to Telling Tree because she must, no other reason. One day Telling Tree turns prophet and then Witch-Woman needs must lead Below to Elsewhere and fulfill her bargain.

26 —I go because of promise from times before, she tells Twice-Born-Child. Now, stir stew or I smack you, child.

Twice-Born angry-stirs their stew, No smack-smack, witch. Cruel you be. I just ask questions. Who you make promise to?

—No business of yours! Witch-Woman says. Stir stew child!

Twice-Born does not see bones floating to green surface of stew with her fast-stirring.

Witch-Woman will not tell her little one what makes their stew. Meat grows scarce as Bubble­ places break. Witch-Woman wonders if her boy-meat knows Twice-Born in past. Maybe they eat her brother by blood? Witch-Woman knows not. Boy rebirths into Village. He goes not to other awful places. She makes sure with her spells before she eats Village peoples. Boy they eat now rests in belly of Weaver. When she find him in woods, boy already empty.

Hand of Twice-Born discovers blue beetle on table and takes it to eat. It crunches loud in her mouth and juices run down her cheek. Witch-Woman wipes face of Twice-Born clean with rags, but Twice-Born pulls away.

—I save beetle for spelling, child! Blue beetles hard to find.

—Hungry, Twice-Born says, rubbing places where Witch-Woman rubs before.

Witch-Woman clicks for Morgana. Green eye peers-regal down on old-woman and girl­ child, then Morgana stretches and yawns and pads downstairs, shrinking to her smallest cat-form.

Morgana jumps up, landing on their table, sniffing cooking stew and pawing at worm crawling out of skull-mouth. Then she gentle-rubs her nose in face of Twice-Born. Little girl laughter fills

Cabin of Witch-Woman. Witch-Woman drinks in laughter of Twice-Born, drinks in her smile. She has little joy in her life before she takes in child.

—Coldest-cold longer now, Twice-Born says. Village say-so. I listen behind trees.

27 —Coldest-cold not longer. It stays same. It changes not. Feels longer. What happens to our world?

—You go to Baramata because coldest-cold shorter?

—Twice-Born-Child! No more say I. Mayhaps I go to Telling Tree because warmest- cold longer. Mayhaps I go because it pleases me. You ask no more questions. Grown folk have their secrets.

Twice-Born drops her stirring stick and folds her small arms across her flat chest again.

Her silver eyes flash bright as ghost-lights in sky. Twice-Born says: Not answering my questions. If you answer, then I stop asking.

Witch-Woman sighs: I go to Telling Tree to remember to forget. Because there be no more of Before. Because I must. I honor bargain I make long time a-gone. You need know no more.

Twice-Born looks confused. Her little eyebrows come together, and her face turns to old woman face with lines. Frowning. Witch-Woman reaches forward and pats blood-red curls, half­ thinking her hands will stain red. But hair of Twice-Born keeps its blood baptism and hands of

Witch-Woman stay like tree bark.

They stay silent, stirring stew and listening to fire crackling. Big cauldron on fire fills with fresh blood boiling thick red, and Witch-Woman makes blood-bread from it soon. Hanging bloodless carcass of wild-one makes meat, and its bones make tools. Witch-Woman needs new knives. Her old ones wear thin.

—I go to edge of Village at moonrise, Twice-Born says sudden. Witch-Woman notices she asks not for permission.

28 —Twice-Born-Child, you not spy on Village, Witch-Woman says. Morgana meows, but

Witch-Woman ignores her. You little and blind and get hurt or lost or—

—They fear me bad.

—Fear makes people beasts. Not safe for you.

—They fear you and Morgana. They will do no hurting. Village kind. Village not like to do hurting. You wrong about Village. You cruel, not Village.

Cabin falls silent except for fire crackling.

—You know not what you say, Witch-Woman whispers, watching fire. World be hard.

Survivors be hard when we fill. Village and me both.

Witch-Woman watches Twice-Born run her fingers through fur of Morgana, now dark as sky. She watches stew bubbling and fire roaring bright. Twice-Born never goes too near fire.

Witch-Woman thinks this be why she so very white, her skin like snow. Fragile, Twice-Born be.

Small and pale and without sight. She looks like white worms hiding now inside skull on table.

—I go to edge of Village tonight, Twice-Born says again.

Witch-Woman says nothing.

*

When Twice-Born befriends Mouse and Fat-Cheeks, it comes by accident. Mouse builds snow fort with Fat-Cheeks while two children check traps for meat. Twice-Born sits in snow-pile near to them and hears much talk.

—Go we to wood for fire-stuff? asks Fat-Cheeks. Save time it will.

—We go after fort grows high for to see wild-ones.

29 —Wild-ones come not! Charm protects Village, Fat-Cheeks says. Her cheeks turn red and redder with fear.

—What of when charm breaks? Witch-Woman protects us not forever, says I, Mouse says.

Twice-Born listens. Never before hears she any who question Witch-Woman or her powers.

—Witch-Woman protects us not last time.

—How you know? Twice-Born says.

Fat-Cheeks screams, and Mouse jumps. Twice-Born comes down snow pile feeling her way towards them. She runs into Mouse, who rights her.

—Remember, I do, says Mouse. My bleeding comes. I stay in Village before last burning with Trail-Maker. She and I make much mood-noise before. Miss her I do.

Twice-Born hears Mouse sniffle.

—You remember? Fat-Cheeks asks. She sounds fill of awe. What does it feel like to remember?

—Like two lives running through your head, it feels, Mouse says quiet. Like lots of lives before in shadows. And you still be you but you be more and more. Easy it be to forget. I remember Trail-Maker most of all.

—You know where she be now? asks Twice-Born.

—Elsewhere. Under Mountain. She born half-Dafaalan last time but lost her turn for new birth.

30 All three girls shudder, Twice-Born feels pit grow big and bigger in stomach. When grown-folk speak of Elsewhere, their voices go quiet. Under Mountain worst of Elsewhere, many say.

—She comes not back, Mouse whispers. She gets not out for long and longer. How can I find her again?

—You find her not. Not ever, Twice-Born says. Witch-Woman says to pretend not for miracles.

Mouse sniffles again.

—You forget? Fat-Cheeks says soft.

—No, says Mouse.

And she says nothing more.

But after they speak of Trail-Maker, Mouse fears Twice-Born not. And Fat-Cheeks feels too much fear of both Twice-Born and Mouse not to have both as friends. They meet at moon- high-time near to Village sometimes to speak of all or nothing. Twice-Born never meets them in

Village, and Mouse and Fat-Cheeks never come to Cabin.

Village likes the friendship not, and Witch-Woman looks on and fears her child grows far and farther from her grasp.

31 Dafaalan and Rites

At end of warmest-cold some twelve cycles from her rebirth, Twice-Born misbehaves.

She walks to Village when Witch-Woman sleeps. She knows it be time for Rites, when women choose their partners for next coldest-cold, when seeds plant, when all try to rebirth less- fortunate ones trapped Elsewhere with Dafaalan help. It be time when Dafaalan visit Village night after night and all turns safe. Witch-Woman does not like Rites, believes them wicked, but

Twice-Born wants to see. Mouse tells her much of Rites, and she has much curiosity for to see herself. Moon cycle turns full and women ready to make children. Twice-Born knows but does not understand. She bleeds not yet, and she cannot join Rites. Not yet.

Twice-Born follows paths through dark twisting trees, through snow high as her chin.

She feels her way with greedy fingers eager-fast. She stumbles and buries herself in snow. Her cold ears listen to silence. Only her footprints speak and they stay soft, muffled in snow. She fears much. But then she hears Morgana. Morgana follows quiet behind, and Twice-Born feels safe. Secret. She leaves trails in snow. She knows she returns before snowfall, before Witch­

Woman wakes. She knows she can do it. She can find her trails again with sure legs. Morgana makes her safe.

Twice-Born loves Wood. It smells of ice and sounds like moonlight and tastes cold. Trees weep crystals shining with silver glow. Snow glistens. She cannot see, but she touches icicles like daggers, and she thinks she can feel moonlight as she can feel fire lighting her face. She remembers seeing. But her memories seem strange-like, and she does not want them. She remembers not where she empties—she wants not to remember. She knows memories come when women first bleed, but she wants them not.

32 But she desperate-wants to see her wood. Her mitten-covered fingers brush tree bark and pine needles, smelling sweet scents through scarf covering mouth and nose. One pinecone falls on her shoulder, and she holds it with her hands. Big as her head! She throws it hard and hears it bounce off some far-distant tree.

Light snow falling. Path-making hard and harder. Twice-Born pushes forward until she grows tired. Faraway, Twice-Born hears howling cackles, and Morgana steps close, fur standing up. Laughter dies away. Silence comes back.

—Wild-ones? Twice-Born whispers. Wolves?

Morgana growls. She grows bigger under hand of Twice-Born. Twice-Born feels her face, traces empty eye socket, and thinks she turns to tiger now. Twice-Born curls fingers into her fur.

—I keep going, Twice-Born says.

Morgana nuzzles her until she climbs atop great tiger. She rides Morgana through mute trees. First, they walk slow but then Morgana starts to run. Their path moves like avalanche, fast and faster. Witch-Woman never will know. Morgana purrs. Twice-Born feels wind and cold, her hair blows back, and she feels bursting with life. She feels strong on Morgana. Witch-Woman cannot see Twice-Born growing up, she cannot. She holds too tight. Twice-Born will show she has strength.

Twice-Born smells Village before she hears it. She smells fires and roasting meat. Her belly hurts from hunger. She wants meat of Village.

—Feasting? Twice-Born says. She hears happy laughter.

They leave trees. They stand on River. Twice-Born slips off Morgana. She feels River in her feet, frozen but deep down current running. And whispering. Always whispering. Whispering

33 of those who will not stop drowning, wraiths under ice. Twice-Born has no fear of River. River her mother, Witch-Woman says. River her second mother. And she has no fear of wraiths. She knows they escape not from ice.

Morgana hisses and growls deep in her throat and dead-murmuring from beneath ice fast­ stops. Twice-Born cannot see faces glaring up beneath ice, glaring at Morgana for her silencing spell. Cat stands-regal and licks her paws. She walks with Twice-Born back to land and Village.

Noise from Gathering grows louder, and Twice-Born slips off Morgana and follows noise. She walks down snowy street, walks by new-made cabins for coldest-cold to come. She feels heat from fire burning big at center of Village. Music coming now and smell of roasting meat. Tummy of Twice-Born rumbles.

She reaches big crowd, Morgana small now and scampering by her feet. Twice-Born near runs into Thin-Gal, who pats her head. Twice-Born does not see Thin-Gal recoil from silver empty eyes of Twice-Born. Thin-Gal masters fear. Thin-Gal shows kindness.

—It be Twice-Born, it be. Big and bigger you grow, little-one. Soon you birth children, yes, like me. Will you lie with Dafaalan to save those trapped Elsewhere? You give new homes for empty-ones. Big be I soon. Big and bigger. Be our Grandmother in Forest well?

—Witch-Woman well, Twice-Born says. Old.

—She use magic to make herself young? She join Rites!

—She not use magic like that, sure-not.

They fall silent, listening and smelling cooking meat.

—Why feasting? Twice-Born asks. I have hunger.

—Eat then, Twice-Born! You come from Village once long time a-gone. Rites hold time for feasting, child. Soon it turn to coldest-cold again. We fill bellies for enchantment and lying-

34 in. And feast grows bigger for one of Dafaalan visits here. He looking to tell tales and maybe help our women to child or our men to pleasure, grandmothers say-so.

Morgana loud-purrs, and Twice-Born feels rustle of air as Thin-Gal drops to knees to pet her. Twice-Born has wonder. Never before has Twice-Born met one of Dafaalan in her memory, but Witch-Woman tells her stories. She fast-pushes forward near to fire, though fire scares her bad. She sits near old people for other children have fear of her except for Mouse and Fat­

Cheeks. Old people smell different than young people. She likes old people smell.

—Dafaalan true-here? Twice-Born whispers to her neighbor.

—Child, one of Dafaalan right across our fire. About to tell tales. Ain't he most pretty you ever see? I feel glad for such to bed with if I still have my bleeding. Even now, mayhaps I persuade him.

—Snow-Baby, you sly, whistles one Grandfather to left of Twice-Born. Sly, sly. All of

Dafaalan much sought. Leave some to young-ones. Or to me. Me and Dafaalan will make much mood-noise.

Old people laugh, and Twice-Born understands not.

—Twice-Born, you come to Village? It be Mouse. Mouse takes her hand. Twice-Born smells Fat-Cheeks too. She smells like sage always.

—Mouse-Child, you block my view, Snow-Baby play-shouts.

Twice-Born cannot see, but just then, quiet falls except for roaring fire. Then speaking starts. Twice-Born cannot see, but Dafaalan's voice more beautiful than all she has ever heard.

Near perfect beautiful. Sounds like when Witch-Woman gentle-strokes her hair or when

Morgana cleans her face. But it sounds fierce too. It sounds like storms of snowfall and crackling

35 fire and singing. No voice like Dafaalan. Twice-Born feels stirring deep-down, longing she

understands not at all.

Dafaalan says: When did time stop, we ask? Ravens know time only when their beaks make click-click-click. Metal wings counting out moments so bleak. Red eyes glaring, smoke

trailing in their wake. Steady ticks like heart beats. Tick-tick-tick. They know time this way.

—True, true! Village says.

—And Village knows time by coldest-cold and warmest-cold. By moonrise and moonset.

By empty bodies turned food and born again in fire becoming becoming becoming more mouths

to feed and minds to brood.

Twice-Born shivers, and Morgana leaps into her lap.

—Beneath Mountain keeps time to screaming and wailing and gleaming fire flailing.

Witch-Woman has click-clock. She has Twice-Born-Child, here tonight, Twice-Born-Child,

Twice-Born who grows and grows and grows. She has Telling Tree and Baramata. Twice-Born

marks time in her sprouting upwards towards dark sky.

Twice-Born feels eyes turning on her, looking at her. Morgana grows bigger in her lap.

Twice-Born holds on to thick fur.

—Dafaalan, mayhaps, know time best. Maybe not. We stay here longer than any. Longer

than time. Before it stops or starts. Our Father births us before time, perhaps. We think so.

—Yes, says Village.

—But how long has our world been so? Ravens do not think to wonder. Village does not

care. Beneath Mountain begs for answers. Witch-Woman does not know. Even Dafaalan stop trying to remember. Death no longer comes to us, only emptying and filling, so we have not even

that. When does time start again?

36 Murmurs around Twice-Born and fire crackling. She feels fear sudden-like.

—I tell tales, if you care to listen, daughters of Eve. Do you want tales tonight?

—Yes! Village says as one.

And so Dafaalan tells his tales. Twice-Born listens to Dafaalan. She hears and learns much. In lap of Twice-Born, Morgana holds her own council as she stares deep into eyes of

Dafaalan across fire.

*

This be tale of Dafaalan:

In our beginning nothing creates nothing from our voided destruction. All grows dark and cold. No light for us. No warmth. No days or suns or stars. Only coldest cold and warmest cold.

Only moonrise and moonset. Only this.

Perhaps, they say, (perhaps indeed, perhaps) Sun murders Earth, his partner, and leaves behind her dead reeking carcass covered with maggots. (We be maggots eating decay. Remember that, always, maggots.)

Perhaps when Earth dies, Moon cries and her tears freeze. Sun leaves his sister Moon, leaves his rotting wife Earth, and gives his daughters away, tosses them to Earth, gives away stars light, stars bright to maggots. And stars and maggots make us. Moon stays behind with her dead sister and with us, her shining maggots, watching over her frozen tears. Perhaps this be what happens, they say. Perhaps. (Perhaps, indeed, perhaps.)

37 Or, maybe our world grows cold and dark through other means. Mayhaps it be that Sun has jealousy of us. For we be his stars. Yes, mayhaps we be daughters of Sun, those who he leaves to care of Moon for he wants not daughters.

And, for long time, as we stars grow in our light, we stay in night and Sun rules day and he believes himself happy. Every day, Sun asks Earth which be more beautiful, day or night?

And Earth says, Day, for day is yours.

But stars, we grow bright and brighter. And Moon she turns from crescent to full. And one day, Sun asks, Which be more beautiful, day or night? And Earth replies, Night, for Moon and her shining stars.

And Sun, in jealous rage, smites down those who shine too bright. And so, Sun abandons below and sends down down down those he does not desire from his fragrant fields in sky for that stars dare have beauty. All of Above hates us for that we try to match Sun. They send us down down down, send us maggots down to eat biting coldness and bath in musky dark.

Probably story go like this: Sun finds magic drink so that he need never sleep again, and he wants it only to be day, forever. He thinks night wrong and only allows night for that he must sleep. And Moon, She-Who-Shines-in Darkness, disagrees. She says: When then does world sleep? She says: How can there be light without dark? She says: What of me and my stars?

Sun has anger and banishes Moon from Sky. But we stars, we maggots, we choose Moon and her world, for Above tempts us not. Probably, they say, Moon says these things: You can stay here in light, maggots, and want for nothing, and be nothing but things bowing low. Or you can go into dark and struggle every day but bow to no one and nothing. In darkness, freedom. Better to rule in darkness than serve in light.

38 And we, us maggots who once shone as stars, we fall down down down to Earth. We

choose freedom over light.

Nothing separates sky from us, no water in below but for snow deeper than oceans of

lore. Darkness only comes below. Deep darkness without adversary.

And we say, Let there be darkness, we know nothing more! Nothing else. Nothing. We

remember nothing and forget everything. We die not. We live forever. We have no hope.

But we who eat Earth's carcass here below, we who Sun deserts and heaven scorns, we who those above believe unworthy, we who smell of rotting meat and molding flesh, we who

live in night of winter, we who have fallen down down down, we who live below—we stand

strong.

We stay below, but, they say, there live those above. Somewhere beyond dark. We,

maggots, burn bright and brighter in our darkness. Above, beware of us.

*

After Dafaalan tells many tales and chooses his partners for this night, (Many will move

from Elsewhere to Village through Dafaalan births tonight! Lucky, lucky Gentle-Hands, how

Village envies her! And who would suspect Dafaalan chooses Dimples, he being so young? And

Thin-Gal, well, wasted that lie-in be because big belly she has already, but she and this Dafaalan

have connection, they do, and Village thinks it sweet after all that Dafaalan wishes to end his

night with Thin-Gal and her unborn child whom he fathered in his arms.) after Twice-Born

leaves for Cabin so Witch-Woman no suspects her misbehaving, after feast be eaten and fire

turns to soot, after women and men pair off for lyings-in and go to make mood-noise and babies

39 and pleasure-warmth, Village women who lay with none this night gather in biggest building for to talk. Their talk turns to Twice-Born-Child.

—Witch-Woman eat Twice-Born when fat enough, you think? asks Pine-Cutter as she skins two wolves Huntress brought from Wilderness. Pine-Cutter does not make mood-noise tonight for she just births second child, and girl-baby not yet off breast-milk.

—Sure-not! says Weaver, poking fire to make it bigger. That child too thin. Bigger children there be for eating. She should take Fat-Cheeks or Dimples, when Dafaalan be done with him, of course.

Village laughs. Fat-Cheeks blushes from skirts of her mother, and Weaver swats her child gentle-like on her bottom, cradling her big belly where sister of Fat-Cheeks sleeps.

—Dimples causes trouble-enough, Huntress says. Partner of Huntress be on hunt and she wants no other yet. She thinks and says: Witch-Woman should take Dimples. All children follow him for kissing and caressing. They well-love him during next Rites. Give me grandchildren that child will.

—Never will Dimples feel cold in bed, agrees Pine-Cutter. But Twice-Born could fatten.

—Think I not, says Mouse. Mouse still too close to first bleeding for Rites, but she says much for all that. Fat-Cheeks looks up at her in awe-struck way. All children adore Mouse for her boldness. Bold Mouse pauses and then: Mayhaps Witch takes Twice-Born to keep herself warm next coldest cold?

Village howls in laughter. Weaver falls to ground in mirth and Pine-Cutter wipes tears from her face. Little children watch older women without understanding. Fat-Cheeks finds string to play spider-games while she listens to elders.

40 —That witch stays dry as River stays wet, says Huntress at last when laughter dies. You silly, Mouse. Witch-Woman beyond her bleeding. If ever she bleeds at all. Not sure she be human, but if she bleeds, if her womb ever makes ready for child, it does not do so now.

—But think of pleasure-tricks she must know, with all her years, says Snow-Baby, scratching her old chin with her pinkie, only finger she has left. I have gladness for to share bed of Witch-Woman.

Huntress chuckles, You share beds with anyone, Snow-Baby.

—True, true, Snow-Baby says. I take all. But we all suspect Witch-Woman takes good care of me.

—But she comes not to Rites. Mayhaps she feels no a-stirring.

Or ignores her heat, says Snow-Baby. Maybe she takes Twice-Born because she has too many years and fears she will empty Elsewhere? Twice-Born becomes new Witch-Woman?

—Why not she tell us so! Huntress says. If so, she tell us. I think Witch-Woman like

Dafaalan and empties not.

Pine-Cutter offers new idea: Mayhaps she bewitch Twice-Born to evil things? Make her into raven or.. .others?

Mouse shakes her head. She says Witch-Woman sacrifices Twice-Born soon. Witch­

Woman empties her and uses her blood for spelling. Fat-Cheeks gasps at idea of Mouse and hides beneath table. Mouse goes to tease her.

Adults watch children play spider-games with string for some time.

But then Huntress says: If Witch-Woman sacrifices Twice-Born, she waits until Twice-

Born bleeds. Then Twice-Born goes to Dafaalan after her first bleeding, one who cares not for humans, and Dafaalan loves her well until she empties from too much a-lying.

41 —There be worse fates, says Ice-Toes, cradling her big belly and her half-Dafaalan baby she rescues from Elsewhere. She smiles big as she feels baby kicks.

—True, true! agrees Village all.

—Maybe, says Snow-Baby, creaking her old bones, Witch-Woman takes body of Twice-

Born so she escapes wherever she needs must go when she empties. Steal body when old enough. Maybe she steals her body now years and years ago! Maybe Witch-Woman steals children for all time. Since Before and Before That.

—I remember not any stealing, says Great-Grandmother, oldest in Village. All fall silent when she speaks. Witch-Woman stays always as she looks now. Never empties. Never changes.

—But Witch-Woman empties not before your last birth?

—I know not, says Great-Grandmother. I remember not. We will survive not without

Witch-Woman. So she wants child. Let her have it.

And Village cannot disagree with Great-Grandmother for all its talk.

*

In Cabin, Twice-Born slips to bed and sees not eyes of Witch-Woman open and watching.

—Where you go, Twice-Born-Child?

—Out, answers she.

—Out?

—Out. I go out when I want.

Witch-Woman answers not.

42 —You stop me not.

Witch-Woman knows not how to stop child. Her spelling works but little on Twice-Born.

Twice-Born bleeds soon. Next warmest-cold? Next-next? Soon. What memories come then? Will more misbehaving follow?

43 Bubble-place

—Witch-Woman, Witch-Woman, I dream lights in dark. Purple and green lights.

Dancing. Always this be my dream. Meaning-make my dream.

—You meaning-make your own dreams, Witch-Woman says. I want nothing to do with them.

Every night, all of Village dreams as one. All of Village dreams lights. Even Twice-Born.

Even Twice-Born dreams lights. Dreaming dancing ghost lights in dark sky. Witch-Woman goes out on to her porch and stares at violets and greens and oranges and reds and blues and pinks and wonders why Village dreams ghost lights. She does not dream them. She dreams stars. Village does not remember stars. She dreams ghosts. Village does not remember ghosts. She tries to forget. Her dreaming does not let her.

—Why you not sleep? Twice-Born asks.

—I know not.

Twice-Born stands with her in cold watching moonrise and moonset. She cannot see ghost-lights except in dreams but makes shapes from snow and listens to night.

—Once, Twice-Born, Witch-Woman soft-says. There be Sun.

—What be sun? Twice-Born asks, her sightless eyes reflecting green ghost-lights in sky.

*

Huntress from Village visits to give Witch-Woman deer meat in thanks for strength­ potion during next warmest-cold. Huntress knows Witch-Woman has wisdom and asks her for it.

44 She tells her host beasties leave area around Village. She tells her host Village fears wild-ones returning next warmest-cold. They come two moon-walks from Village now. Charm makes it so wild-ones see not Village but they know it be there, and they circle it every year. Village still makes dole for Trail-Maker and her kin, still remembers last burning in current lives.

-We can stay here not forever, whatever Grandmothers say. Wild-ones wait for us to rebuild but come back soon. Meat goes to wilderness. What happens to our world? Huntress says.

Huntress has large body this time, too big for small chairs of Witch-Woman. Chairs hold comfort if only Witch-Woman makes them larger, Huntress thinks. Comfort chairs not like wooden chairs of Village. Huntress wonders if her arms, strong as they be, can battle magic of

Witch-Woman. She plays with half-finger on right hand and looks not at her host. Meeting eyes of Witch-Woman can end bad, and Huntress avoids emptiness for when she empties she turns to tree in black forest and screams where none can hear. She spends thirty-three coldest-colds in

Village, and she wants not to return to tree-place. Soon she becomes one of grandmothers in

Village and can make decisions. She needs must survive.

—Still have Bubble-place, Witch-Woman says in her croaking voice. She sounds like fire sputtering. Bubble-place for greens. And there be meat there too.

—When will Baramata turn prophet?

—I know not, says she.

Huntress looks sad at her hands, then stares into fire. She knows not why she says it, but somehow she knows she must: Body of Deer-Born empties on last hunt. Falls and breaks leg.

Maybe she screams. We hear her not. When we find her, she freezes like ice. I kiss her, hold her, try to make her warm, but she has no heart-beat.

45 —Sadness I have for you, says Witch-Woman, and Huntress thinks she sounds it.

—She and I be a-lying together fifteen years now during coldest-cold. Deer-Born comes in last birth from Deep Snow. She goes back there now, cold and frozen, in Deep Snow, turned to ice and ice, her eyes a-wandering and bleeding under ice. How long before she comes to

Village again? Will I empty to black forest and scream in tree-body before she returns? We never before meet. Not that we remember of lives before. What if we meet never again for we escape not together?

Both fall silent and watch fire of Witch-Woman burning, burning. Sweet smell fills cabin for Twice-Born makes spiced cider from last of stored apples. Twice-Born sits up on her balcony looking ahead with sightless eyes and humming her child-song. Huntress listens with hairs standing up on her neck.

—Meaning-make, Witch-Woman. What happens to world? Huntress asks.

Witch-Woman sits with her hands folded, listening to song of Twice-Born. She answers not.

*

In middle of warmest-cold, Witch-Woman takes Twice-Born with her to Bubble-place for greens. She wraps Twice-Born in warm coats and hitches her sleigh to Morgana. They leave before moonrise and return not until moon-dark-time. Village waves to them and offers gifts for more greens.

On their path to Mountain, they listen for metal-men or beasties or wild-ones. It be

Twice-Born who hears metal men marching first.

—There, Twice-Born whispers. Hear something.

46 —Just metal-men, Witch-Woman says. From through twisting trees, Witch-Woman hears them too. Clunking, clunking, metal men on snow. Hissing snow melting for metal men.

Moments later, two giants burst through trees ahead. Tall as trees, shiny black, with smoke rising from pipes in their heads. Fire-eyes gleaming, smoking. Click-click-click. Everywhere they step, snow melts away. Steam rises up in their steps. Click-click-click. They march forward, metal arms swinging up and down holding whole trees blackened from fire. Holding whole trees like spears. Many people in trees empty-out and some come to Village. Metal-men give mercy, but

Witch-Woman knows not if they wish mercy.

Morgana draws back. Metal men have not seen them yet.

—Not smart, Witch-Woman tells Twice-Born, just no getting in their way. Let them make path.

Morgana lets out her lowest hiss, reminding Witch-Woman to stay quiet.

They watch one metal-man tear up another tree pulling through deep snow. Pine needles catch fire. Burning trees hurt-bright in dark. Metal-man puts his face into burning tree. He drinks in fire.

Twice-Born shakes. Witch-Woman holds her close against her chest. Hush. Hush.

—What happens? Tell me picture.

—Hush, hush.

Metal-man devours all firelight and tears up new tree with smoldering ashy stick still in his hand.

Witch-Woman clicks her tongue at Morgana, and she quiet-follows, keeping distance.

Metal-men keep moving and melting snow. Ground be flat here. Metal-men make ground flat for

47 travel. Trees uprooted, burned, fed to gaping mouths. Witch-Woman can see fire inside of metal mouths, inside of metal eyes. Burning fire inside of metal-men.

They click-click-click on and on, Morgana following safe-safe. Finally, Witch-Woman sees metal-men stop. Ashy trees drop. They fall down, down, down into hole in earth. Metal-men freeze and stand next to hole in earth. Their fire-eyes burn and then fade. Click-click-clicking stops.

Witch-Woman hushes Twice-Born and leaves her on top of Morgana. She slides off

Morgana and slow-creeps forward through melted snow. One foot. Another.

—Witch-Woman, Twice-Born whispers.

Witch-Woman keeps moving forward up to metal-man. Her hooded bald head brushes tips of metal fingers. She reaches up and touches. Her mitten comes back black and smoking.

Metal man does not move.

—Empty? Twice-Born asks. I hear them not.

—Resting, Witch-Woman responds. She picks up ashy branches that have fallen from trees. She taps on other parts of metal bodies. Sound like music. Sharp.

—Meaning-make, Witch-Woman says. Meaning-make for me, metal man.

She sees them before. But she does not know why they roam her forest. Path-making they do.

Sometimes guarding. Guarding places they do not want anyone to go. Be they servants of

Dafaalan or something else?

—Guarding what? Twice-Born asks when Witch-Woman tells her idea.

—No knowing, Witch-Woman says. She, Twice-Born, and Morgana continue on metal­ men path to Bubble-place for their greens.

48 *

They start finding empty animals when they come within one hour of Bubble-place.

Small pretty birds frozen in snow, mayhaps falling when they can fly no more. Witch-Woman picks up one yellow songbird, holds its broken body small in her hands. It turns stiff from cold air. It dies with confusion, she thinks. It knows not why it must bear such pain. Witch-Woman cries icicles and angry-wipes them away. She loses her eyelashes and her eyes too, she thinks, if she cannot stop tears. She must not cry.

Birds fly farthest in cold. Their bodies line snow like fallen leaves of Before. Tracks say that some survive. Deer maybe. Some horses. Animals with thick coats. They survive not long.

Nothing will survive long now. Witch-Woman pushes Morgana on, her mind frozen like animal bodies they encounter, wondering what comes next.

—No understand I, says Twice-Born, pulling her warm coat tighter and curling fingers into fur of Morgana. Morgana cannot step now without trampling small bodies. There lays rabbit. There lays empty-badger. Mice. They see empty golden monkey with wide eyes, curled around empty baby trying to keep warm. Snow already buries them to torso. Morgana lets out howl when they find frozen kittens, their eyes closed as if in sleep. Mother deep in snow, mayhaps, looking for safe place until she freezes.

Then Witch-Woman sees Bubble-place up on hill. She gasps but has no surprise.

Bubble-places keep greens and animals that cannot survive in snow. Dafaalan give them to all so that peoples, wild and in all Villages, can live. Their Bubble-place stands between many hills. It stands high up, so high. Round like half circle. It has clear walls made of something like ice. But something not ice. It be something to see and not to see. Witch-Woman cannot meaning­

49 make it. When ravens go through barrier, it stretches and lets them in. When peoples go through it pulses with light and glows. And, because barrier stays clear, Bubble-place looks always green, like high hidden garden in white snow.

Now, Bubble-place be broken. Barrier not working. Cracks run up and down like purple spider-webs. There be no green now. Bubble-place looks like dark spot on hill—black and dead.

They walk and walk up long twisting path to Bubble-place. They come to barrier and they enter.

—Feels strange, Twice-Born says.

—Always does, Witch-Woman agrees.

—Drowning feeling, Twice-Born says.

Witch-Woman does not respond. Twice-Born cannot remember drowning. She never says she remembers her second birth. Her bleeding comes not yet. She cannot remember before second birth.

—But.. .why not warm in here?

—Broken, says Witch-Woman. Enchanted it be before. Dafaalan magic guards it. But now it breaks.

Witch-Woman and Twice-Born wander through frozen withered gardens. Snow falls from broken place and already it blows in drifts to cover flower beds and herb patches. Place of vegetables not yet snow-covered but everything empty and black on ground. Apples frozen on trees like ice balls. River freezes.

By river, two naked wild-one corpses curl together. They look as if they just finish a- laying together and fall to sleep. Witch-Woman stares at them. They look like sculptures of ice.

50 Frozen. Empty. When she comes nearer she sees one wild-one has eyes open, and eyes twitch back and forth under ice, screaming eyes, eyes filled with terror.

It happens sudden-like to trap them. It happens while they sleep mayhaps.

Bubble-place breaks sudden.

—What happens? Make pictures! Twice-Born demands.

Witch-Woman answers her not.

—Witch-Woman, what do we do?

But Witch-Woman has no answers.

51 Change

Dreaming grows worse after Bubble-place breaks. There be no more greens now. Stored greens only last so long. Some Village peoples grow sick, and some empty. Hunting parties come back with only wolf-bitten corpses. Quarrels break out and, for first time in long time, someone empties another in Village, empties half-Dafaalan, one who goes to fire pit Beneath

Mountain.

Wild-ones prowl Village, waiting, watching. They see Village in flashes, see people-meat inside, before charm makes Village disappear.

Every night, ghost lights grow brighter in sky, and Village dreams them harder. Village comes for answers Witch-Woman has not. Witch-Woman goes to forest and surprises sleeping wild-ones with sharp-knife. Red snow makes patterns but tells her nothing. Meat lasts not long enough. Village hunters attack wild-ones during moonset for food. Wild-ones grow angry.

Short time after Village hears Bubble-place breaks, Hot-Breath rapes Fat-Cheeks. Hot-

Breath has fever chills and says he knows not what he did, but still he does it. After it finds out,

Village runs him into wilderness, runs him out of charm space to waiting wild-ones, blood of

Fat-Cheeks still clumping hairs together around his soft penis, and blood still spilling from scratches up his chest from where Fat-Cheeks fights him. They do not let him take either of two boy-children he fathers nor any food. There be no greater crime in Village then forcing one to lie against his or her will. It be worse than emptying another even, which sometimes has cause.

Village makes great dole for Fat-Cheeks and cries many tears. Child so young that now grandmothers know not if she ever has children, but she survives and maybe she remembers it little. Village hopes early pain makes her wise in time.

52 When Witch-Woman hears of crime, she prepares threads to empty Hot-Breath, wherever he be. Never before has she done such, though Village accuses her many times of spell-casting early ends. But now, Witch-Woman watches sleeping Twice-Born and prepares threads. Village has its justice, but she has hers, and she knows wild-ones will accept any, even such as Hot-

Breath, especially such as Hot-Breath. Perhaps he leads wild-ones to Village, betrays children he fathers.

She readies her cauldron with hairs of Hot-Breath and blood left on fingernails of Fat­

Cheeks. For water she melts ice of River. She cuts up one snow-newt and sprinkles in bark from yew tree. She places threads into cauldron and boils until all water disappears and then dries threads out and binds them together, sprinkling with spices. Life of Hot-Breath she holds in hand now. Witch-Woman takes her knife and cuts threads. Somewhere Hot-Breath turns worse than dead now and, when next she goes to Village, Witch-Woman sees his face under ice in River, drowning forever and clawing at ice, his bloated hands red from blood and scratching, naked and shamed. Mother of Hot-Breath kneels on ice and watches face making great dole and wailing, beating her hands against top of ice to match his hands banging beneath. Witch-Woman feels shame for her to have born such son as he.

Village asks why she spell-casts emptying for Hot-Breath, why she puts him beneath

River rather than let him be reborn to Village. Before he comes from Village.

—Unnatural to send Village-born Elsewhere. Opposite of Dafaalan births you do, Village says. He can learn if reborn to us, Village says. He can be better. And if his body empties, we have more food. You set yourself as Sun, cast judgement on all?

And Witch-Woman curses Village for its wickedness: Mayhaps Sun right!

53 Morgana cuddles with Fat-Cheeks when they be in Village, keeps her warm and makes her laugh. Witch-Woman brings salve to cure her wounds. Child young and strong, but her eyes look old now. She same age as Twice-Born, who Witch-Woman leaves in Cabin even though she yells and screams for to come. Witch-Woman touches head of Fat-Cheeks gentle-like. Next time,

Twice-Born. And Village wishes for mercy?

When they return back to Cabin, Morgana stops for mother of Hot-Breath and cuddles with her out on River, letting her cry into black fur. Witch-Woman stares at her and tries to pull her away. Scornful wraiths look up at Witch-Woman from under River, eyes screaming and mouths saying evil things none can hear. She pities them not. They belong where they be. She sends them not there (except, she supposes, for Hot-Breath).

Witch-Woman not sure what be right no more.

Ravens bring her baby-girl one day from wild-ones. She be half-empty-child. Witch­

Woman slides her knife over small throat gentle-like, cooing lullaby, and when she be all-empty- child, she drains blood to make remedies, uses her flesh to feed Twice-Born, and her bones she uses for casting. Once, she feels sad to empty one so young. Once, she tries to save her baby-girl.

But she cannot save this child and painless deaths be better than living in this world. Empty child goes under Mountain to endless fire screaming, but what to do?

She burns child bones in blue fire and asks: When will Baramata turn to image of black sails? When will I lead Below to Elsewhere? When will it end?

But even when infant bones crack to make their message, she reads only: Not yet, Witch­

Woman. Not yet.

54 INTERLUDE: A SONG FOR LOST THINGS

Daughters gather. Daughters hear. Follow me on a journey. Coldest-cold descends, and

Village by River sleeps once more. See a crimson line like a twirling rope strung around the entire village from the great frozen river to the edge of the wooded wilderness. Over coldest- cold, the red will fade and melt into snow, but now it is as fresh as when Witch-Woman first drew it.

Step over the barrier of blood and into great stillness. No sound. No breathe. Not even wind. All rests quiet as death. Two deserted streets form a cross with the large communal building at its center. Every street is covered with snow waist-high. There are no footprints, no animal tracks, not even drifts from wind. Pine trees bend down with snow, but they do not release their burdens nor do they break. Snow buries every little cabin home but, if you dare, enter in through doors that are steadily entombed.

One room: Snow-Baby cuddles with one of the Village grandfathers nose to nose. Her chest does not rise or fall. Another bed holds young Dimples, who is curled naked with Thin-

Gal. They are spooning, his young hands across her big belly. On the floor, Mouse rests with armies of stuffed rags guarding her from whatever nameless terror could come in the unending night. None of them are breathing. They look dead, but if we touch them their cheeks are warm.

They are only sleeping.

Blue fire fills their hearth, crackling but releasing no smoke. All of the cabin glows faint blue. In a cauldron, stew is boiling on its own with its blue-fire heat. It smells divine.

But we intrude in this private space; let us withdraw.

55 Time passes. Snow falls over Village. Abroad more Bubble-places burst. And, one day,

Witch-Woman looks out from her hill down to Village by River. She summons me from my dreams and together we carry more blood.

“Village will wake no more,” says Witch-Woman. “There be not enough food. Wild-ones gather to empty them all. I keep them asleep until Baramata turns. I keep them asleep until world changes. Otherwise Village becomes like wild-ones or.. .I know not. Charm holds if they sleep.”

She redraws her Crimson Line in the snow. I add my magic to its strength so it will not fade this time. Then she goes back to our cabin, and she bends to kiss Twice-Born. I disapprove, but she redraws her enchantment around the child too, tears falling from her old eyes.

And so it comes to pass that the rules change. Ravens peck at bones atop homes, but

Village does not wake. It sleeps on, enchanted, alive but dead, safe but frozen in time. It dreams

still of ghost-lights, of Before when things were different. And all of Below—from wild-ones who start bigger and bigger wars; to other struggling Villages before they are forced to disband; to all of Dafaalan-kind who try desperately to hold the world together— speak in hushed whispers of Village by River where people sleep as if dead until their spell breaks. They speak of the enchanted place safe from the famine and the wars over the resources locked within the remaining Bubble-places. They speak of the Witch who holds such power when the Dafaalan grow weaker year by year and century by century. They speak of Village by River for years and then decades, and, as centuries spin away in cold darkness and generations are born to deathless death, Below begins to think of the Village Time Forgets as only one of many legends told to make children less frightened.

And still Witch-Woman in her Wood stands guard over the dreams of Village. She waits and watches the sleeping Twice-Born-Child. By her bed-side, she keeps a smooth green bottle,

56 untouched by all the ravages of time. She waits for Baramata, journeys out year after year,

waiting for the prophesy to come, for the needle to point to the black sails of change.

I would venture, if you'd permit my indulgence, this is what Witch-Woman remembers

while she walks to Telling Tree each year, even when she tries to forget:

The sound maple trees make during autumn storms as their leaves tumble to the cobbled

streets. Her husband's hands, dainty and feminine with the most beautiful nails she has ever seen.

The taste of soil from her garden in early spring. A yellow sun with orange and red rays like a

child's drawing, perhaps her daughter's, perhaps her own. Clouds that cry and shrubs that sweat. A

talking horse (or is that a dream?). Her sister's shriek and chattering voice. Her mother's smell like

roses (or is that her grandmother?) and the way she, whoever she is, walks like a queen. Her child

with dark hair (fair?) and eyes like thunder. The sky painted blue, not black, and free from stars.

What it is to lie beside another, naked, and trace each other's scars. Fried eggs over-easy, fresh

scones drizzled in butter, chocolates. Rich incense and candles swaying from side to side as men

walk in eLabourate robes down pew-lined aisles. Her daughter slamming the door,

laughing, dancing in the moonlight. Menstruation. A story about a girl wearing red who was

eaten by a wolf. Four notes from a haunting melody about love lost.

And these are some of the things that Witch-Woman once thought of but has since

forgotten:

Her father, who has never been presence enough to hold on to anyway. Perhaps in her

deepest half-remembered dreams she sees his back retreating or a hand clasped around a black

notebook, a smell like old books. She has forgotten the taste of apples, black tea with milk and

honey. She no longer remembers her daughter's face but for eyes. She has forgotten everyone's

names, even her own, even mine. She cannot recall her husband's voice or the exact picture of

57 his face in orgasm. The world at sunset when the sky reddened. Lilies. Why she has come to be in this place. What has happened to the world.

She does not remember the details, only sketches, only shadows, only adumbrations of what was. I, now called Morgana in the twilight of time, will remember for Witch-Woman, for

Twice-Born, for the Village Time Forgets. For all of those who survived. I will look to the aurora and know its secrets. I will remember until Time starts again.

58 BOOK II: THE CITY OF GHOSTS

59 Elena

London. Mist rises from the Thames, and the clouds are pregnant grey. A thick layer of

fog weighs down silent streets, creeping into cracks and crevices, smoothing rough edges, and

obscuring the details of the city. Until the mists clear, it could conceivably be any time in the

vast history of the city by the river: its dawn as a village of thatched cottages, its noon of steel

skyscrapers reaching high into the cloudy sky, or this, its dusk when the mists mask rot and

decay.

Dive down through the heavy air in search of human inhabitants. You will be

disappointed; the half-forgotten human infestation has all but vanished. The living have dug

beneath their dead, burrowed into the Earth's belly, and the ancient streets are left to the

elements, left to the new-born trees and the weeds that have broken through once-smooth road

surface and climbed the exteriors of the buildings. Saplings spring violently forth, fighting the

old maples and oaks for air. They stand young and naked with only a thin layer of yellow and

burnt orange leaves. The mists mute the vibrant autumn colors and paint everything a dull grey.

Follow the mists through twisting trails between the crumbling edifices of brick and stone and steel. Weeds turn the path brown-gold. An unwary foot could catch itself in a rabbit hole or

unlevel crack or perhaps one of the many hidden animal traps uppers still check more from habit

than hope. Pass a stalled lorry parked on the dead street, stripped for all valuables long ago until it

is merely a shell, a ghost of what it once was, unrecognizable under its dress of vines, a home to

animal skeletons or the desperate human survivor. Many such metal shells litter the streets. Leave

them to the mists.

60 A statue stands in the square eaten away by time and greenery, its purpose forgotten to all

but Ruth and her disciples. Few can read the carved words and fewer would recognize the

eroding face with its sneer of cold command. Forget it then.

Walk forward into an alley with grass high as light poles. Here you are gifted a rare

glimpse of a human being, a brave scavenger who walks cautiously in the jungle-city, spinning

in circles to watch her back, a knife held ready in front. Pass her quietly with hands high in the

air or her knife will catch your blood. A nod between two wayfarers, perhaps a flash of colors or

papers announcing a purpose for trips over ground. She disappears into the thick swallowing air.

There are no birds to see on this journey, no pigeons prowling their old haunts on the

walkways. No old ladies to feed them. Don't look for squirrels or rats. Despair of seeing a bee or

butterfly. Perhaps, you might come across the footprint of a deer or a wild cat or dog, the hint of a

growl from the basement of that old butcher shop on the corner. Remember: survivors ate those

who perished, and they are hungry still.

Exhale a sigh, for here now is a kept area! The weeds have been trimmed and the stone is

level. This is an entrance to the old Tube where once the trains connected the city through the tunnels that were its veins. Now, the trains are stationary, the blood has stopped pumping. These

downward steps lead to the Undercity, to the Dens and the Theatres and the Tents. Walk quickly

to pass the armed boys with their BritGov badges and questionable honor. The govboys who

guard the uppers from the down-dwellers, who do the bidding of BritGov without question, their

eyes are black pits. You wouldn't want to upset them; they are desperate too.

Stay in the light a little longer.

On this corner, a pipe has burst and buckets are set-up to catch the water. Eyes look down

from one old Georgian house to the street, trying to make out forms through the mist. Hug the

61 river and pray the eyes will not shoot you dead. The houses are deprived almost entirely of glassy gleams. Many are empty carcasses, their interiors crumbled away. Others are only repositories for government supplies or have become the dumping grounds to conceal the ludicrously high birthrate for corpses. Chimneys that emit a serpentine trail of smoke signal those few scattered homes still inhabited.

Leave behind the Georgian houses and cross the street turned river. Here stand the tall brutalist tenements of World's End Estate, the Thames reflecting the red brick towers in wavy duplicates. From one such high-rise, a figure emerges cloaked in a man's jacket and wearing his watch around her wrist like an amulet. She carries with her a bloody bundle of cloth. For a moment, the woman stands in the shadow of World's End, peering through the courtyard for evidence of stalkers.

It begins to drizzle, and the woman proceeds from the courtyard to the street.

Hers is a face grown old before its time. Her features are chiseled deep, her shoulders too broad, her long wavy brown hair matted, her skin stands somewhere between brown and white, and her large wet eyes are the color of earth. This woman is mother to a Ruth and daughter to another Ruth. Her name is Elena, and it is to her our story must turn.

*

A week before the Undercity closed its gates for good, Elena stood scrubbing thick blood from her arms in the shallow stream that ran down the center of King Street, holding her fingers under the freezing water until they turned stiff and numb. The sun hardly peaked from the gloom

62 of the clouds this morning. Below her, the stream looked like a misty snake as it trapped the grey sky and twisted north until bending behind the pile of rubble that once had been Chelsea.

Very few souls remained in this neighborhood and the buildings were beginning to collapse in on themselves, moisture defeating them one by one. Elena and Jo were the last claimants of World's End, living alone in flats four stories apart. Their nearest neighbors camped in one of the Georgian houses a half a mile north of them. Only those seeking Elena for medical help came here anymore. So, when Jo had gone into premature Labour at midnight, there was no help for her but Elena. For eight hours, Elena had crouched between sweat-soaked legs. For eight hours, she had marked the exhaustion that quieted wails of pain from shrieks to whimpers. For eight hours, she had tried to deliver a baby without allowing the infant to split its mother in two.

Elena shook, rubbing dark streaks of drying blood from her face.

It had finally come out: a girl. So of course it was born dead. It probably had been dead for a while, and Jo's bodv was onlv getting rid of it just then. The bundle of bloodied cloth sat at

Elena's feet. She would have to burv it soon.

Elena had never been trained to be a midwife, and certainly not one operating without any of the drugs that had become standard in the hospitals before the collapse. She wondered if she should have done something more to help the child. Perhaps another woman could have done better.

A voice in her head that sounded verv much like Michel's reminded her it wasn't her fault the baby had died. There was nothing Elena could have done. Only God could perform miracles. It was not her fault. There was Michel again.

“I know,” Elena said aloud. Lately she had taken to talking to herself. She thought perhaps it was alright. As long as no one answered her back, she was still sane. Michel would tell

63 her that, would find her new habit amusing rather than troubling. She was quite sane. Too sane.

That was the problem. That had always been her problem. “I know it wasn't my fault.”

Her knowledge was as great, if not greater, than all the many women who had been delivering children for centuries before modern medicine. Before the universities closed, she had had some training. In the world that was she had wanted to be a doctor. Now, she knew herbs better than anyone else in aboveground London. She had taught herself the old remedies.

It hadn't been her fault that the baby had died, but holding that breathless infant hurt her.

Nearly eighteen years ago, she had delivered her own daughter into the world. That baby merged with this new one, and she cried bitterly outside World's End, walking forward only to trip over a buried bicycle that blended with the late fall grasses creeping through the concrete.

*

When she returned to check on Jo with a hot pot of nettle tea to help her body recover, her mother-in-law Myriam had arrived and propped up worn pillows on the sofa for Jo's comfort. The bereaved mother was staring blankly out the window holding a framed picture of her three sons in her lap. Her face could have been a funeral mask, her eyes the empty glass of a doll's.

“She's in shock, yes?” Myriam murmured in French, giving Elena a deep hug. The older woman was tiny, built like a ballerina, her wispy white hair like dandelions in autumn. Her grey eyes, so like Michel's, looked deep into Elena's. She reached with a tiny hand to brush hair from the younger woman's forehead, tutting at the remnants of blood. “You should sleep, little darling.”

64 “No time, I need to..Elena" lowered her eyes from those inquisitive grey. “Someone

radioed for help in Brompton,” Elena said. She was unaccustomed to lying to Myriam and

thought perhaps Michel's mother would possess his ability to see through her falsities. “Thank

you for coming, Mimi. I couldn't leave Jo...not like this.”

Myriam smiled and waved her hand, “Bah, it is nothing. The walk from the Cathedral, nothing. Good exercise. Poor Joanna. She loses too much, yes? Husband and sons to Undercity.

All gone. Poor dear.”

“All gone,” Jo said, her voice a monotone. “All gone but ghosts.”

“Jo?”

The other woman did not answer. Elena bent closer to her and handed her the nettle tea.

“Drink this.”

Jo, her features pale with exhaustion and her face still blank, turned her gaze from the

window to Elena. She took the tea and sipped it slowly. Elena watched her touching the photo in

her lap before returning her masked face to the dreary grey skies.

Elena looked at Myriam, who bit her lip in a gesture so reminiscent of Michel that she

wanted to cry. Her mother-in-law dropped her gaze, turning those stormy eyes to Jo and gently

reaching to brush the other woman's tangled hair with her fingers.

“Ghosts, darling?” Myriam said.

“Ghosts,” Jo said. “All ghosts.”

The two women tried to coax her, but neither could make her say another word. Finally,

Elena sat beside her, “I'm going away for a while, Jo. Need to help someone, someone ill.

Myriam will stay with you until I come back.”

No answer.

65 “If I don't come back.”

“You will, dear,” Myriam said. She was stroking Jo's hair now, petting her as she would

a young child. “Joanna and I will see you at Mass Wednesday, yes?”

The other woman continued to look out the window, sipping her tea in silence. She was

still sitting there, her eyes glazed over, when Elena bid Myriam goodbye and left World's End.

*

Going to the Docks was a desperate move, and Elena knew it. She was right not to tell

Myriam, not to tell anyone, even her sister Deborah. No one willingly walked to the other side of

the river anymore, especially not one of the faithful. And yet, nearing dusk a week before her

daughter's eighteenth birthday, Elena reached the Westminster Bridge. Clutching worn-down

prayer beads around her neck and feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol strapped to her

waist, she looked towards the ominous and unmoving London Eye. The fog was heavier this

close to the Thames, and Elena could only see the outline of the wheel. She knew the Sisterhood

had graffitied it black and painted a red glaring eye at its center, but the Watcher was invisible to

her now.

“This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come,” Elena whispered to

herself as she crossed the bridge and reached the Sisterhood's territory.

She turned left up Queen's Walk but paused at the empty aquarium. In the final days, its

lobby had turned to a fishmonger shop and a restaurant for the wealthy. She rested her hand

against the cool metal frames outlining what once had been glass. The stink of fish clung here

even now, some five years after the shop had closed its gates. One lone dummy, long robbed of

66 the clothes it had modeled for would-be tourists, peered out from atop a table. Elena stared at the faceless white dummy standing with a counterfeit arm on its hip amidst the scattered debris of torn magazines, dirty cloth, broken blue glass, rubbish bags, fishbones, and several stuffed stingreys. Russet mushrooms had sprung up happy in the wreckage, feeding off what the humans had left behind.

Ahead, Elena saw the ashen path leading through the thistles and marsh weed surrounding the Watcher. She walked forward, placing her left foot against the trail's edge. Her boot sank into the fresh ash like snow, and when she picked her foot up it was dusted in grey.

The earlier rain must have been confined to the other side of the river, but the clouds promised

Elena that her journey back would perhaps be less dry. She saw bone fragments mixed with the ashes and felt them crunch beneath her foot.

She tried not to think about how this path was made. She tried not to think about the footprints she would leave behind her. She tried not to think about how often the Sisterhood must rake the path to their headquarters to remove footprints. She was unsure whether she would prefer they did this maintenance often or seldom, unsure if she would prefer to be one of few or one of many who dared venture here.

The first footprint signaled an inability to turn back, an inability to deny that she had in fact come to this road of her own free will. Even as she knew her choice to walk through the ashes had already been made, she couldn't help but shiver at the record of her progress forward as another footprint joined the first and then another. The past receded behind her, as irrevocable as ink across paper.

67 She felt unsafe in the comparative open and treeless area near the Thames. As she drew closer, the large painted eye turned the Ferris wheel into a monster. She glanced from right to left. She looked up at the large wheel in the sky, watching it sway with the wind.

Her breath caught.

Several human figures sat in the seats midway from the ground strapped into the

Watcher, but whether they were corpses or the Sisterhood's equivalent of scarecrows, Elena did not know.

She tried to look away.

The emptiness of London haunted her. Before the populace had retreated underground,

Elena had disliked the swarming crowds and the constant ceaseless chatter. She had hated the flashing lights of advertisements, the constant interconnectivity via mobile phones, the noise of the motorways and flyovers. Once, she had begged Michel to consider moving to the country.

Now, what she would give for the comfort of masses, for the masking safety in din and plenty.

Not even birdsong or the distant rumbling of airplanes broke the silence as the misty afternoon drifted towards night.

Across from her, the remnants of Parliament rose like ghoulish citadels and reflected on the grey waters. No lights had been lit, though Elena knew BritGov still used the buildings as if their mere occupation signaled civility and control. Someone had painted Repent! in large red letters on a dark building flush against the far shore.

Another step through the ashes, and she could see the docks. The wooden structure was burnt black and blended oddly with the landscape as if the river had built it for its own mysterious purposes. Elena coughed when her next step threw ash into the heavy air. The river reflected the dying sunset of grey and burnt orange with one gleaming ripple of shining gold.

68 Another step and Elena could see the massive ships with their black sails resting

unnervingly still on the waters. The ships looked like they had glided out of an old pirate film but had then been submerged in a river of liquid metal. They projected a sense of otherworldly terror

in the dull evening light as the black sails coiled in the light breeze. Anchored to each of the

ships were smaller black rowboats big enough for no more than three or four. The entire

spectacle was funereal. The docks deafened sound and sombered even the ribbon of glittering

gold on the water.

Elena gazed out at the fleet, trembling. She had never been so close before, not since the

Sisterhood had taken over the east. Each of her footprints through the ash-path brought her closer

still. The cross against her throat felt heavy and hot like a brand. Internally she said a quiet

prayer, appealing to Mary, who was a mother and surely could understand her errand, would

condone her actions.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

The path ended, and Elena placed a foot on the solid black of the docks. The creak of the

wood sounded agonizingly loud, and the structure moved and shook with her weight as she made

her way forward. The dock smelled of the sea and something sweet Elena could not place, like

roses or cherries mixed with morning dew.

Blessed art thou among woman, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

“What's it want, hey?”

Elena jumped and spun around, her hand already at the gun strapped to her waist.

A woman was sitting on the dock, her legs dangling over a rowboat tied there. The

boatwoman was around forty and wearing battered sea-faring clothes. She smoked a pipe idly. A

flask was strapped to her waist as well as a gun, both conspicuous even if no one would dare do

69 anything on the docks. The woman was Indian by descent and rather stout, impressive considering the Sisterhood would not eat govgrub and usually were a scrawny lot because of their refusal.

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

“I asked a question,” the woman said. “What's it want?”

“It wants a chip,” said Elena. With great deliberation, she let her hand fall from her gun holster. The other woman smiled nastily, measuring Elena up, and she wondered if this sailor had been watching her all the way up the path of ash.

It began to drizzle, and the gold patch of the sunset brightened with a final glaring intensity, battling the grey mists. Elena walked slowly right up to the other woman and sat beside her, close enough to be in knife range if either was so inclined. If this was a test, Elena intended to pass it.

The boatwoman took a long drag from her pipe and then blew the smoke out in small rings, watching them form and dissolve like butterflies catching fire. Elena tried not to choke on the thick smoke, tried to keep her breathing level and sure, but she coughed despite herself. The other woman smiled again, smug in her power.

“Why don't she have a chip yet?” the woman asked. She was not looking at Elena, but rather at the rings of smoke. Elena tried to copy her, even as her eyes were drawn down to the river where their reflections were turned to rippling blacks, blues, and greens like a kaleidoscope.

Rain pattered against the water creating little pits in the waves. The swirls fascinated her, and it took her a moment to register the other woman's question.

“Why don't she have a chip yet?” the woman asked again.

70 “Religious exemption,” Elena said. “I don't have a chip because I told them it was the mark of the beast. Don't want BritGov knowing where I am all the time. Or my emotions. Thev measure that too, don't thev? Thev even say..they say that thev can control you, right? Send thoughts to vour brain or...influence you.”

“But now vou want it? Want a chip knowing all that? With them closing up the Undercity next week too. Trving to get down before the gates shut? Whv thev shutting at all?”

“I need to make a trip there.”

“Foolish. People who go under don't never come back up.”

“I will come back up. I know the Sisterhood can get me a chip faster than the. the normal channels. I need to get below ground.”

“Religion. Paranoia. Hmmm,” the boatwoman chortled. “Ladv Faith coming to the devil for the mark of the beastie.” Her voice took on a singsong qualitv, and Elena wanted to hit her square in the pipe. The woman turned to her and raised a knowing eyebrow. Elena made sure not to lower her eyes. The other woman looked away first, and Elena felt triumph even at this ridiculous victory.

The drizzle was fast turning to rain, and Elena felt the cold would soon win out against

Michel's old coat. She wrapped her arms around her chest protectivelv.

“I want a chip. Either vou help me or vou don't. That's vour business,” Elena said.

“No need for harsh words,” said the other woman. “Chips ain't safe for the faithful...not safe for the faithless either. Whv thev closing the Undercitv?”

“I don't know. Don't care. I need to go below before thev do.”

“Might intercept vour plans, thev might, call vou a rebel. You from monev? Have friends? Thev might not like vou going down below. Might trv to stop vou.”

71 “I won't let them stop me.”

“Fine as fine goes. Determined she is! You should take a drop, calm yourself.” The boatwoman held up her long silver flask. It twinkled in the dying light, and Elena felt a chill run down her spine. "I---"

“Good, it is,” the boatwoman took a long drink. “Liquid courage. Helps Lady Faith with the shaking, it does.”

Elena, feeling rather silly and bold, reached out and took the flask. She swung it back hard. It was rum, pure rum, and it burned her throat. The sticky sweetness of the drink felt warm.

She drained the flask.

The other woman whistled. “Well, well.”

“My daughter's in the Undercity,” Elena said, her head already feeling lighter, and her voice sounding distant in her ears. “I'm going after her. I'm bringing her home.”

The woman, who was looking now at the black sails on the water, shrugged, “Everyone lost someone. No one comes back up from underground. Last Great Migration takes so many souls down below. And BritGov takes a month to process chips. Sad stories all. We don't have no paperwork on us, do we now? Suspicious asking, ain't it? We could get in trouble, we could.

Asking to break the law right across the river from Parli...aren't you daring?”

“I want to go under before they close the gates. I know the Sisterhood—”

“Well, I wants for this here boat to sprout wings and fly, don't I just?”

Elena glared at her. She felt heavy, sleepy almost, and the woman was beginning to look much like her refracted reflection on the water.

72 As if obeying a command Elena could not hear, the other woman slipped off the dock and into the rowboat beneath them.

“Get in then,” said the woman, holding her pipe between her teeth. “You can ask the ladies in the ships. They make decisions, not lowly me. She makes her deal with the devil, she does. Lady Faith goes to Lucifer.”

“I know,” Elena said, slipping into the boat and yawning in a sudden wave of exhaustion.

“But wouldn't you, to save your child?”

The other woman looked at her and did not answer.

*

Elena remembered the day her daughter had left with a painful intensity. It had been early autumn, a lovely day quite different from this one. Michel had been dead almost six months, and

Elena was starting, slowly, to figure out who she was without him. Ruth was nearly seventeen and had become a strange mystery to her, an alien who vaguely resembled the girl she had carried for nine months inside her body. After Michel's death, Elena had moved herself and Ruth temporarily to live with Deborah and Mother in the big house they had commandeered near the palace gardens and Belgrave Square. Even then, Elena felt the familial closeness breaking down her nerves. She missed her home at World's End and her solitude.

The day BritGov lifted the PG restriction on the Undercity and triggered the Last Great

Migration, Mother had been at Trafalgar for her Alexandria Project and Barak and Deborah were at the ministry fighting the decision. The lodger, Essie Smith, had gone for a walk. Elena sat in her room, sewing neat stitches through an old coat of Michel's she was repurposing for herself.

73 Before, minors needed to go beneath with their parents or had to have something signed on their chips so that they scanned positive when they crossed the threshold. Children under the age of thirteen were forbidden entirely unless their parents lived below ground. The rules only partially worked; Elena knew children as young as seven had broken through the checks into the

Undercity, but they had so far kept Ruth above ground. When BritGov inexplicably removed the age barrier overnight, she began to worry, gnawing her lip. She didn't feel true fear, however, until she saw Ruth dance into her room, dressed for a trip out.

“You won't go,” Elena said, following Ruth into the bathroom they shared on the third floor. “You will not. I forbid it.”

“I'm a-goin' to Egypt! Always wanted it,” Ruth said. “Could be Cleopatra.. .or just float in the Nile.”

“I say no.”

“Maybe, mother dearest,” said Ruth, doing up her eyelashes with thick black mascara she had gotten on the black market, “I'll find Eden in virt. Say hello to Adam and Eve for you.”

“If you read the Good Book or paid attention to Father Keegan, Ruth, you would know full well that Adam and Eve were cast out of Paradise. And Eden was in Ethiopia or some other such place,” Elena said, half-frantic. “You don't want to go down into that dreadful Undercity!”

“It's too dark in here,” Ruth said, ignoring her mother. She turned to the window, pulling the curtains wide. Sunlight streamed into the tiny bathroom, turning the peeling wallpaper from grey to a cheerful blue.

In the street below one of those tattooed govgals (a down-dweller squinting in the sunlight) was staring up at them with unnaturally long purple eyelashes, probably waiting for Mr.

Madison, the neighbor. When Elena met the woman's crimson contacted eyes, the hussy

74 beckoned with a come-hither finger, her painted nails long enough to stab an unruly client and red enough that no one would notice the blood. Elena went to the window and pulled the curtains back together fiercely. She scowled at her daughter for exposing them both to such a licentious gaze.

Unfazed, Ruth lit the candle sitting on the bathroom sink. Now the little yellow dots on the blue wallpaper danced with the flickering light. Rumors were the electric would never turn on again. True, it had been four years now since the lights had gone out above ground. True, most people had moved already to oil lamps or even gas. But BritGov still insisted the power outage was temporary. The constant radio reminders as to the temporary loss of power above ground, however, had gradually stopped coming. In response, the street dealers were peddling batteries at higher prices than the devices they powered. Petrol had disappeared nearly five years ago and, with the electricity gone as well, prices for wood, peat, oil, and coal had skyrocketed as another winter approached. This candle could be worth more than Elena's wedding ring now, and

Ruth was using it to apply make-up.

“Egypt was where Pharaoh enslaved the Hebrews, and God showed us His great power through the seven plagues,” Elena began, trying to channel her mother, who had once managed to lecture an armed robber on ethics as he held a knife to her pearl-encased throat.

“Right, killin' off babies, a real charmer, your god,” Ruth said. She was bent and twisted like a snake in front of the bathroom mirror. It had cracked into a spider web when someone had set off a grenade somewhere in the Undercity two months ago. Now the mirror was holding together through prayer. Elena knew her daughter was trying to find an appropriately large triangle of glass to judge the accuracy of her mascara and overall effect of her face.

“Ruth, you are being quite blasph—”

75 “Spare me, Mum,” Ruth said, finally finding the entirety of her face in the glass. “I wanna see pyramids. I wanna see mummies. My gal plans to go a-trackin' for her past life as a pharaoh's gal. 'N it's free. Like, free-free.”

Elena had not met Ruth's “gal” nor ever been told her name. She suspected she would disapprove of Ruth's mysterious lover, however.

“Don't you wonder why everything's free?”

“Well, not much food, 'n you eat less under, so, solution!” Her daughter snapped her fingers, and smiled around her tongue.

“Ruth—”

“Look, some prophet from the Docks tells me—”

“The Sisterhood? You are quoting the—”

“Oh, come on, mum!”

“They are high on hallelujah day in and day out. You cannot seriously be considering—”

“The Sisterhood's fine, yeah. Believe in freedom 'n creatin' yourself, creatin' your world.

They design the best virts ever. Can't wait for Egypt in partic. Just deal wi' it.”

“Ruth,” Elena was struggling to follow her daughter's speech patterns. She talked more and more like a down-dweller no matter how many times she reprimanded her. “Ruth, don't you remember the Riots? The Sisterhood is probably responsible for—”

“Oh, come on, no one believes that. The Sisterhood didn't do it, right? All BritGov cover-up. That shit's just takin' the piss out of people like you.” Ruth sighed and pulled back from the mirror, stepping about a foot away and almost colliding with Elena in the process.

“Can't do this all crouched.”

76 “Well, that's your first good decision all morning. Giving up on decorating your face with God knows what chemicals, wasting how much money, and perverting your beautiful sk—”

But Ruth was not giving up on her task but rather adapting to the fractured mirror. She was now applying lipstick from afar, her eyes concentrating on one image in thousands.

Elena blinked, trying to dismiss the seemingly infinite number of bright red lips curled like guppy fish in front of her. Ruth's brown hair had been straightened—it usually was quite curly! Elena thought it hung dead like a wig on her shoulders. She resisted the urge to reach out and fluff it up.

“You can't go down there anyway, you need a chip, which you don't have—”

In the mirror, all the Ruths raised up all their arms. There was a faint red mark on every palm like stigmata, “Went ‘n got the chip off a street dealer yesterday.”

“You—”

“Mum, you can't do anything without a chip. All the virts only take chips now! So you have your ‘religious objections' but some of us want to live our lives. Papa'd let me get a chip.”

“Well, as your father's not here—”

“I have to go get it off a street dealer who smells like hallelujah and tells me that he's the

Archangel Gabriel. Thanks, Mum.”

Elena snorted, reaching out and forcefully grabbing Ruth's arm. Hundreds of mother and daughter eyes met in the mirror, Elena's dark and piercing, Ruth's identical to Michel's soft grey.

“You go and get it removed,” Elena hissed. “Right now, young lady. It's the mark of the beast. It'll get you killed. Even if you don't believe...do you want BritGov to follow your every

77 move? Do vou want them in vour head? We don't even know what chips can do! Your uncle

Barak has said not to get a chip, and when your uncle, who works in Parli—”

Ruth laughed and drew back her arm, breaking eye contact in the mirror and beginning to touch up her lips instead, “Wav the world's goin', we're all dvin' anvwav. I wanna go to Egvpt.

It'll be warm there.”

“It isn't real!”

“So what? The real world's bollocks.”

Elena thought she could hear the wind outside blowing rubbish through the streets. She shouldn't have closed the window; the bathroom was so dark in candlelight.

Ruth's eves were verv hard.

“I wanna go into virt. Everyone's goin' under. I want to go to Egvpt. Mv gal tells me she knows all the best dens. If the govs start fightin' ‘n go nuclear, I wanna die knowin' I saw the pvramids. 'N, oh, right, I have a better shot of survivin' below than up here. Everyone's goin' under Mom! Give a vear, there'll be no one left topside.”

“You can't plug into that computer! Virtual realitv is addicting. Look how manv people never come out of those tunnels. They forget the real world! I think, as your mother—”

“You got to accept mv decisions.”

“I most certainlv do n—”

“Sorrv, mother dearest. You'll have to deal. Look,” Ruth turned from the mirror and met

Elena's eves for the first time. “You've done a good job, okav? You're great. Thanks. But you're done now. I'm grown. It's mv turn. I get to go out 'n make mv own choices. I get to make mv own mistakes. That's the deal.”

78 For a moment, the two looked at each other in silence. They were held suspended, eye to eye.

Then Elena blinked.

“You are not grown up and you do not understand what you are doing. You are not capable of making these sorts of decisions yet,” Elena hissed. “I made you, and I am going to bloody well make sure that you do the right thing. So—”

“You never fuckin' listen,” Ruth said, turning away from her mother and back to the mirror. “Never. Now, if you don't mind, mother, I'm leavin'.”

“I do bloody well m—”

But Ruth had turned away from Elena, blown out the candle on the sink, and exited the bathroom. She left her mother glaring at her own fractured reflection in the darkened room and watching the quiet twirling loops of the dead candle's smoke.

Elena was frozen. Later she would hate herself for freezing. But then it seemed impossible to do anything but follow Ruth in her mind. Elena could almost see her jump the missing step, followed her down one floor, two, and ground floor. Elena walked to the window, opened the curtain, opened the glass. The sound of rustling leaves. Elena waited a second, two.

Then she heard the front door of the building opening.

“Hey, babe, you wanna have some fun?” the govgal was calling to Ruth.

Her daughter's voice: “Nah, I'm good. You're pretty as fuck though. Got any pointers?”

Elena turned angrily, but then the door to the building, two floors below, slammed shut, and the bathroom mirror, barely holding together, shattered, sending shards of glass cascading across the tiled floor.

“Damn it!”

79 Elena had thought Ruth was just blowing off steam. She thought at worst she would try a virtworld or two and come back the next morning. But she didn't come back. Not that night, not the following morning, not in the weeks and months to come. Ruth had vanished without a trace, without a hope, without a prayer.

*

It had been at least an hour. The ship rocked with the river back and forth, back and forth.

She was inside the belly of the beast, inside one of the three black sail boats. It smelled of cigar smoke and cinnamon. No one had come into the room since the boatwoman had led her here.

Her memory felt foggy as if she had just woken from a nap. The rum in the flask had been very potent, and Elena felt more than a little drunk. The sweet taste still lingered on her tongue.

Elena was tapping her fingers against the table nervously to the tune of Handel's

Hallelujah Chorus. It was a tick she had picked up from Michel, she knew. Once she had tapped the soprano part whilst he had tapped the alto at one of the few parties Deborah threw to which she and her husband were invited. The upper crust of BritGov made both Elena and Michel edgy, so they had responded with childish games. It had gotten them banned from future gatherings, of course.

Elena hummed under her breath and pretended Michel was in the chair next to her. She tried to smell his aftershave, feel his hairy hand in hers, look up into those reassuring grey eyes her daughter had inherited. She stopped tapping as the pretend vision became more and more real.

80 She could just leave. The door was unlocked. She'd checked as much after fifteen minutes. Her bladder was asking for release, and perhaps, if she just walked into the hallway she would find a loo or she could go—

Where?

Mvriam knew to contact Deborah if she didn't radio home tonight, but Elena doubted even her sister could retrieve her from this mess. As her mind hazily considered possibilities, the door creaked open and a voung bov looked in on Elena, “Come. Thev will see vou now.”

She rose and followed him through the bowels of the ship in a semi-daze. Everything was silent, and the swaying of the boat felt like a cradle. Elena yawned. Her fingers touched the walls, and paint chipped off even though she had barely scratched.

They walked up to a cabin with windows looking out over the river. Outside, the day was clear and she could see the docks across the way, see the boatwoman smoking once more, see the outline of the decaying London greenery turned gold and red with the onset of autumn, see the empty wilds that undoubtedly held eyes waiting to watch her return. She thought it should be darker outside. It had been sunset an hour before. It had been raining and gloomy.

Elena turned away from the window with a sense of unease. She tried to take in the room to which she had been brought. It was not what she was expecting. Her eyes moved across a homey floral carpet, a roaring fireplace, and a large grey sofa. Three woman sat on the sofa turned away from her, she could only see the tops of their heads. The boy led her forward towards the fireplace.

“Sit.”

Elena took an armchair by the fire facing the sofa, looking at the women in front of her.

81 The eldest was knitting what looked like a veil for a widow in mourning, the second eldest was sewing patterns on a baby's bonnet, and the youngest was spinning thin pink wool tighter and tighter for thread. The three women were dressed in black, green, and red respectively. Their arms were bare and had various black tattoos tangled up from shoulder to fingernail like swirls of an ancient language long forgotten.

“This thread is too long,” the woman in green said. “Hand me the scissors, dear?”

The youngest woman, the one in red, passed them absentmindedly, “Do you think this is fine enough, Mother?”

“Oh yes, dear,” said the eldest woman, the one in black. “It will do nicely.”

The green-clad woman held the thread up between shining scissors, and, as the blade approached the thread, Elena was filled with uncontrollable foreboding.

“Don't cut the thread!” she shouted.

All three turned to her. The scissors stood poised around the thin wool, and Elena could think only that she must stop them from descending.

“Why ever not?”

Elena sat back in her chair, trying to control a shiver of fear that held her heart tight. The warmth of the fire, the incongruity of seeing these women sitting here at the needle, the sheer strangeness of it all made Elena feel she was in a dream.

“You are in a dream,” said the youngest quietly.

“What are you—”

“We put you under some time ago,” said the eldest woman, counting her stitches. “It is the easiest way to ensure our safety. You can see that, can't you? You were probably followed and, if BritGov ever interrogates you, we would rather you know very little about us. We are in a

82 virtual reality world, a port-virt as you would call it. Yahweh designed this one, our founder.

That was what the rum was for, of course.”

“That's not.. .that isn't—”

“But you don't know, do you?” said the youngest woman. “You don't know whether or not this is real, and that in the end serves our purposes just as well. We conceal the identities of our top operatives. No one comes on these ships without being put under. Aren't there enough rumors by now?”

Another shiver made its way up Elena's spine. The rumors were darker than this explanation. Her eyes glanced around the room for instruments of torture or perverse sexual pleasure. She saw nothing.

The woman smiled as if reading her thoughts, which perhaps she could. Elena did not know the rules of virtual reality very well. She had intentionally refused to learn. Turning away from the strange women, she looked around the room, trying to find a tell as to whether she was in the real world or a virtworld. But she had never been in a virtworld before, and she didn't know what to look for to know she was dreaming. Very deliberately, the woman in green holding the scissors snipped the thread in two and Elena felt as if she had just watched someone die in front of her.

“Interesting,” the woman in green said.

“You are Elena, daughter of Ruth,” said the youngest woman. She looked to be of

Middle-Eastern descent and was probably Elena's daughter's age. She was alarmingly beautiful in a way Elena had forgotten, the way it used to be on films before the cinemas had closed and the television had gone dark. Her sister Deborah had been beautiful once, but never like this. The

83 patterns across this woman's arms looked floral, almost as if she were doing henna for her wedding day.

“Yes.”

“We know of your family,” she said. “We keep tabs on all those who remain above ground. But we have particular interest in your sister's household.”

This did not surprise Elena, though she did wonder why they would so readily disclose it.

“Then you know my sister's husband is a powerful man,” Elena said, trying to project confidence.

All three women laughed. The eldest dressed in black, a stout woman who looked faintly

Welsh with maybe a hint of Japanese, had a cackle that made Elena's skin crawl.

“We do not fear the British Government,” the youngest woman said softly when the laughter had died down. “We have.larger.. concerns. It is not for Deborah or her husband Barak that we keep such close tabs on her home.”

“I see,” Elena said, though she did not.

“You wish for a chip,” said the eldest woman.

“Yes.”

“Not easy to get these days,” said the woman dressed in green. “Even for us.” She was of

Indian descent, like the boatwoman, but unlike the other woman her accent reflected her place of origin. She shifted her weight. Elena noticed, startled that it had taken her so long to see it, that she was pregnant. As if reacting to Elena's gaze, the woman put a protective hand across her large belly.

84 “You can get a chip,” Elena said. “I know you can. You can get it to me before they close the gates. And I just need enough time to find her. To find my daughter. I can do it. Even with a couple of days. Somehow.”

They looked at her, their eyes unreadable.

“Don't waste your time lying to me, right,” she said slowly. “I know what you people are capable of. I know, alright.”

They were silent for a time, studying her. Elena shifted her weight under their scrutiny and crossed her arms tight around her chest.

“Very well,” said the youngest at last. “We will give you what you want, but we don't think it will matter.”

“How can it not matter!”

“We foresee the end,” said the eldest woman.

“Yeah, well, you kooks have been predicting Armageddon for years now.”

All three laughed. Elena, realizing at the last minute the irony of her statement, and, wondering not for the first time when the street preachers had become atheists, gave them a bitter smile.

“An operative will meet you at Nelson's column tomorrow at noon,” said the pregnant woman. “His name will be Melville. He has red hair. We will expect payment—”

“I have herbs. All the old remedies, mixed up right here. They are nearly as good as medicine in the old world—”

“We have our own herbalists, Elena.”

“That's all I have of value. No one has money anymore!”

85 “Not money,” the woman said slowly. “You ask us for a favor. One day we will ask you for one in return.”

“Fine.”

“We wish you well, sister. For what it is worth.”

“And I you,” Elena said, seeing her dismissal and rising. “For what it's worth.”

*

The next afternoon, a lone buck galloped through the wilds in fright, crossing a street turned river, glancing up with wide eyes at Canada House where a pack of wild dogs made its home, and eventually resting next to Nelson's vine-covered column. Elena and her sister

Deborah were both sitting at the column's feet. Elena glanced at the animals grazing on some of the last green grass. She considered her gun, but didn't want to lug a carcass anywhere especially when she did not plan on being above ground beyond this afternoon. A gunshot in the streets this early could bring govboys, and she hardly wanted them here now. And really, it might be the last deer in London. Deer could not live much longer than ten years, could they?

“This is wickedness, Elena,” Deborah said, glaring over at her sister and continuing the ceaseless lecture that paused only when Deborah was shocked into silence or had to draw breath.

“It is sinful. Imagine what Father Keegan would say if he saw you sitting here right now in broad daylight about to engage in sacrilege! Whatever will I tell Mother! If she knew she would beg her dearest middle child to change her mind and return to the path of righteousness! Imagine our dear elder sister Maria looking down from heaven and crying. And for what? You can't save her Elena!

Indeed you cannot!”

86 It had been a mistake to tell Deborah anything, a mistake to go to her home the night before, a mistake to divulge anything in her drugged state. But it could not be undone. Her sister had insisted on coming with her, and it had been easier to accede to her demands than to fight her.

Elena tried to tune Deborah out. She glanced at her watch—it was a wind-up so she didn't need to barter for batteries. The gold watch was battered and the glass was cracked. But it had been Michel's, and it made her feel safer on the streets. It still told the time accurately enough.

The operative was late. It was nearly 12:15. She looked all around the square. The sun was midway in the sky. He should be here by now.

Maybe he wasn't coming.

Elena had not considered what she would do if Melville didn't come. Had it all been a dream? Had they lied?

“It is not merely the moral wickedness, Elena, for which you should be concerned. You don't want to spend the rest of your days in the darkness! As my only sister on God's green earth, I must protest this conduct, and you and I should go now to the church and ask for forgiveness, and then go home to the safety of my house where Barak will come home tonight, and we will know what to do! We will indeed.”

Elena blinked. A boy, it had to be the one they had sent to her, had appeared across the way. He had bright orange hair, but had hidden most of it under a dull green cap. His freckles were a riot, and his nose had to have been broken at least twice. He was thin and scraggly. A gun was strapped to his waist, and he was turning from side to side checking for any danger. What

87 was he, ten? Eleven? He couldn't be quite thirteen, Elena thought. He approached her with a confident gait.

“Good afternoon, Melville,” Elena said.

“They said one would come,” said the boy.

“I am her sister,” Deborah pointed at Elena violently. “And I deeply protest this entire exchange and demand that you, worshipper of Satan, return to where you came from!”

The boy had the nerve to smirk, and Elena did not know if she liked him or detested him for it. His real name wasn't Melville, of course. It was a code name. All of them had code names. Elena wondered what his mother called him, if he had a mother, if he lived with her still, how this young child had gotten mixed up with the Sisterhood.

“Please ignore my sister,” Elena said quietly.

“You shall not ignore me, no in—”

“Deborah, if you disapprove, then leave!”

Deborah glared at Elena and then stood, walking away to sulk by the dead fountain. She was, of course, still close enough to hear every word they said.

Elena looked at the boy intently. “So?”

“Well, I got it,” Melville said slowly. “But I'm telling you, lady, it's better to go through the official channels.”

“Precisely!” snorted Deborah. “A crime. An honest to goodness crime! My sister committing a crime!”

“It takes a month to get one through BritGov,” Elena said. “I don't have a month.”

“Your funeral,” the boy said.

“Her damnation,” Deborah muttered.

88 “Can I see it?”

Melville looked at her, considering. He bit his lip, and then reached into his pocket and placed a small round disk about the size of her fingertip into her open palm. It was very smooth and looked like stainless steel. It felt warm in her hand.

“That's it?”

“That's a chip,” Melville said. “But it isn't hooked up to the network vet. And we don't

know who the previous owner was. If thev pull vou up questions might be asked.”

“There are entrances without guards.”

“Yeah,” Melville said. “All thev need is chip and retina scan. So, well.”

He placed something else into her hand wrapped in a clear sealed package. Elena peered

at it and dropped it in alarm.

“Dear God, that's an eve!” Deborah squeaked. She sat down in shock, hand over her

heart.

“The one that matches the chip,” Melville said calmlv. He picked the eve off the ground.

“You don't want to go damaging it like that. Might not work properlv.”

Elena's heart had sped up. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where he had gotten these

things. To demand to know where he had gotten these things. Or just to get up and walk away.

She still could get up and walk away.

“I'd recommend waiting until the night, right,” Melville said. “Even the unguarded

entrances can get dodgy during the day. Govboys have been swarming all over the place lately.

Don't know what they're up to. Whv don't vou have a chip alreadv? Thought evervone did but

us.”

“I don't believe in chips.”

89 “I get that. We've taken ours out,” Melville showed her the scar on his palm. “Chips let

BritGov track you, and we think they do more than track. But getting caught stealing someone's identity is bad, okay? I'm just telling you. They don't make no fuss with people going under, but coming back up.that's.. going to be difficult.”

Elena had to ask, “Is this person dead?”

Deborah had put her head between her legs and was moaning theatrically.

“I don't know,” Melville said. “Didn't ask, did I? They could have just cut out the chip and removed the eye. Does that make it better for you?”

Elena sat back. “I just want to find my daughter.”

The eye was blue. She couldn't stop looking at it. She wondered what it felt like for someone to take your eye like that. What would it be to touch your eye socket and feel only a hole?

Melville was rising now and creaking his neck. “Look, I have some surveillance work to do, right? You be safe on the way back home. If you do go under, don't sneak in until the night.

And remember, it might be a one-way ticket.”

The boy walked out of the square, leaving Elena alone with Deborah who was looking dazed.

“Elena, sister, you can't be serious!”

But she was.

The sisters looked at each other, and then Elena stood, turned and walked out of the square, leaving Deborah behind her.

*

90 Elena waited until dark. She sat alone winding away the hours at the empty St. Martin-in- the-Fields. It had been targeted during the Riots and the interior was stripped bare, its white columns charred. The molded ceiling had survived, however, and the structure had not crumbled.

One great chandelier still hung from the ceiling.

She prayed all afternoon, thankful that Deborah did not follow her.

She didn't pack. She didn't prepare. She didn't know how.

Under cover of the night, she walked, chip in hand, to the Charing Cross entrance to the

Undercity. The steps went down and down into darkness. She had brought a lantern from the church, but the yellow flame of light hardly touched the darkness below. It was possible the stairs went down forever. It was possible Elena would never return from her journey.

The stairs were barred with the high gates BritGov had installed to separate uppers from down-dwellers. They were too tall to scale, and, without machinery, Elena couldn't cut through them. At the gate's side was a chip reader, which would open the gate and allow one to enter.

Elena took the eye from its package. It was slimy in her hands and felt breakable. She held it, trying not to gag, up to her own right eye. The chip she placed in her right hand, holding it to the palm with her thumb. She stepped forward for the scanner.

Her heart felt as if it were trying to break her ribs.

The red light on the gate turned green, and it began to swing open. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

“Hands in the air!”

She spun.

91 Three armed govboys stood behind her, rifles in hand. Their eyes were black all the way through, no cornea, not white, just deep black pools.

Her hands rose automatically, and the chip and the eye tumbled from her grasp.

“I'm sorry, mum,” said the govboy nearest her, “but you're a-goin' to come on out with us. You don't belong down there.”

Elena, desperate, tried to make a dash for it, but the govboy was faster. The last thing she remembered seeing before the chloroform forced her to sleep was the stolen blue eye as it rolled down, down, down the steps into the Undercity.

92 Countdown: 5 Days

'N down the blue eye goes a-rollin', down the grime-coated steps 'n down, down, down,

passin' buckets o' filth 'n torn-up papers, passin' a corpse eaten up wi' maggots, 'n it goes on a-

rollin' all the way into Mad Mary's lair.

“Glory be!” the dragon Mad Mary coos. Her filthy clawed hands go reachin' through her

pile of coins 'n paper money, makin' the rustlin' sounds. Her yellow fingernails are long, five 'n

a half inches curlin' back towards her. Five 'n a half inches scoop forward, snare the eye.

Mad Mary can't see, no eyes of her own. Can't remember when she lost them precise.

She takes the hallelujah to make it up, but no one 'n no one brings her any now. She touches the

eye gentle with her claws, lets it roll to her palm.

“Smooth,” she says. The eye gathered dirt as it rolled down 'n down, but Mad Mary

doesn't mind much. She pops the eye in her wide mouth 'n uses her chompers to crunch it down

her gullet. Then she goes 'n falls back wi' her treasures, enjoyin' the rustlin' sounds. Her gold

twinkles like stars.

“Glory be,” she says, belchin'.

*

The Undercity town o' Naraka under Brompton gets lonesome these days. Everybody's

pluggin' in. Orpah takes up music since she migrated down. She goes on into teachin' virts to learn different instruments 'n picks the harp in partic. No harps in Naraka, but she finds a zither

in a dragon lair. She likes how her fingers feel ‘gainst the strings, likes how it sits in front o' her

93 even if she misses the harp's weight on her shoulder. She's better in virt than out ‘cuz her muscle memory hasn't caught up, but she still zithers away in the Red Tent tonight.

It's all for giggles. She doesn't need to work anymore for real. Even barter don't mean much now. You get your tent, you get your govgrub ration, you plug on in.

Only she can't plug on in right now 'cuz o' the ARCs. Her chip reads 5 into her palm, 'n the wait-queue's long as Tent City to get your place in your ARC. One whole week for Orpah.

“Birthday present,” Jez keeps sayin'. “We'll celebrate your day in virt!”

Hoo-hah, a birthday present for Orpah. Eighteen years old 'n she gets her virt for life.

Grand. There's the ole Brit spirit, quein' patient-like even in the Undercity. The gates shuttin' for good 'n everybody reservin' their spots 'n still they have to wait 'n wait 'n wait. All the Dens makin' room for everybody, so they say.

Fine 'n dandy.

She can't plug in, so she's a-harpin'. Party ‘til meat-world ends, she says.

She holos usual in the Red Tents. Feels better bein' naked if she looks like some other gal. They aren't allowed to touch her, see, but some get grabby anyhows, 'n the holo gives her a barrier from them. The lights are a-riot wi' neons: blue, green, and purple. Looks like they swim under the sea. Jez burns incense she gets from Ham over in Annwn under Chelsea. It smells like lavender 'n roses. They're all on some patches too. Orpah can see the smells in the air swirlin',

'n she doesn't know if seein' smells come from her new eyes or the moods. The Red Tent's high up 'n big as the circus. No one's fuckin' yet, just dancin'. It's all almost as good as virt.

Her holo tonight has green-skin. Big and curvy, wi' a bust like nothing you've ever seen!

She's a mermaid, hair long 'n green, fish scales coverin' her unmentionables nice 'n decent.

94 She plays some old folksies wi' good beats; they've been a-tryin' to bring the tunes back in Naraka. She strums away, watchin' Jez dancin' 'n smilin' just for her. Watchin' govboys pair up wi' govgals. Govboys ask Jez, 'course, but Jez's Orpah's gal. She's more than pretty in the blue lights, Jez, 'n she doesn't holo neither. She has hair like fire—orange 'n curled—'n her freckles make patterns on her arms, her perfect legs, her bouncin' breasts fallin' up 'n down in time wi' the beat. Orpah knows all those freckles, has put her lips to each 'n every. Knows those perfect tits, they're her pillow in the nights. Jez goes 'n winks at her still smilin' that smile where her teeth just start to show.

Vashti comes on up to Orpah, watchin' her watch Jez. She's done herself up wi' purple skin 'n long thick gold lashes, has some implants in her eyes so she can see data in virt. They make her eyes glow like a prophet. Vashti makes sure she looks older than she is, 'cuz gals her age are rarer than uppers nowadays 'n bad things happen to them. Still she moves sometimes like a little gal for all that. Orpah worries on her.

“Gotta plug in something bad, Orp. Don't like this meat-world,” Vashti says.

“I'm with you,” she says back.

Only some forty govgals left tonight. They've been pluggin' in quick 'n don't need to wait like the rest. The govboys are workin' hard gettin' everyone in their ARCs. 'N they plug in quick too. Did their time, she supposes. Still she wishes it all moved faster.

Vashti sits next to her, twirlin' her gold fingernails. “You two gals sign your ARCs?”

“Yep,” Orpah says. “Last week.”

“Does it bother you that you won't never come out again?” Vashti asks.

95 Orpah looks at her. She never takes Vashti for a meat-lover. Sure, she makes herself scrumptious out of virt, but she ain't much to look at under all the glamor. Might not even be glamor, might just be holoin'. It'll be a shame if Vashti rebs out on them.

“You wanna be in virt, right?”

“Sure,” Vashti says, lookin' at her gold fingernails.

“What's the problem then? Pluggin' in for good wi' the ARCs?”

Vashti sighs 'n shakes her head. Maybe she misses Ahab. Orpah always thinks they're considerin' snogs, even if Jez says they're just friends. But Ahab goes topside like a snooty upper some three months ago when they started talkin' ‘bout ARCs. Rebs out wi' no warnin'.

Orpah 'n Jez don't comprehend it. Ahab's Jez's kid brother, 'n she hates for Jez to be in the dumps.

“Orpah, play the one 'bout the meltin' rocks!”

She starts a-strummin' the sad tune, fingers pickin' gentle at the old strings. Jez saddles on up to her 'n winks. Orpah doesn't like singin' much, but Jez has a voice like an angel.

“My love's like a red red rose springin' up new in June, my love's like a melody, played all sweet in tune,” Jez sings out. The neons fade a bit. That's Gomer over on the lights, an artist like Orpah. She's old 'nough to be her mum, but still young for all that, member o' SAW 'n seen all sorts.

The dancers come together for a slow song, 'n Orpah knows this'll turn from dancin' to fuckin' pretty fast. Already there's strokin' 'n sighin'. Some snoggin' here 'n there. The govboys are too excited bein' up against naked girls, 'n they can't hide it neither.

Jez catches her eyes 'n holds them, she's singin' just for Orpah. She's singin' from the heart o' hearts. So Orpah doesn't look at the live theatre in front o' her. She just looks at Jez:

96 You are so fair, my perfect gal, 'n so deep in love am I,

'N I'll love you still, my gal,

'Til all the seas go dry.

Everybody sways with the music. Some govboy comes for Vashti 'n they float through the blue-tinted lights. A govboy grabs at Jez's butt, but an old gal takes his hand away 'n tuts, smilin' at Orpah. Gomer dances wi' a kid from Annwn, leavin' the program on auto.

'Til all the seas go dry, my gal,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I'll love you still, my gal,

While the sands o' life run.

Jez has the greenest eyes Orpah has ever seen. They hold whole virts inside them, sparklin' 'n glowin' in the soft hues. Her hands are walkin' down her body, cuppin' her breasts, but then she puts both on her heart.

Fare you well, my only love,

Fare you well for awhile

I'll come again, my love,

Though I walk ten thousand miles!

The music stops, it's turnin' fast into an orgy, 'n no one notices. There's a bell a-chimin'; the clock strikes midnight.

Now, Orpah's palm reads a bright blue 4.

She reaches for Jez, takin' her hand, 'n they start off to go from the Red Tent. A govboy stops them at the entrance though, grabbin' Orpah's fake tits. He makes a face when his hands pass through air. His pit-black eyes scare Orpah something fierce, truth be a-tellin'.

97 “More boys than gals in the world,” he says. “Selfish ain't it, for you two to go off together. We have needs, see.”

Orpah brings up her knife, the one she straps to her waist against her bare skin under the holo. It's long 'n jagged thin, “Don't want no trouble, yeah?”

The govboy sneers but backs up, hands in the air. His black black eyes lookin' at her wi' loathin' hate, “Suitin' yourselves. Virt has plenty for me, once the meat-world dies. Maybe I'll make up your fake tits in virt, huh?”

Holdin' tight to hands, Orpah 'n Jez slip right on past him, slip out into Tent City towards the turnstile, slip out into the glitterin' darkness to enjoy meat-world ‘til they can plug in.

98 Ruth

When it came down to it, Ruth did not make the decision to poison Beatrice lightly.

The idea had come to her while she was looking through Elena's old room in search of anything that had belonged to her son-in-law. Myriam was coming the next day after Mass, and she had been adamant over the radio about having something to remind her of Michel.

“Myriam, don't you have your own keepsakes?”

“I shall explain all tomorrow, yes? We shall have a girl's night.. .what do you call it?...a sleepover! I have. something happens to me, yes? I will tell you all.”

Ruth did not find any piece of Michel in the room—presumably Elena had taken her memories with her—but she did find something else of value. In one of the drawers was a collection of plastic baggies filled with herbs. Elena had carefully labeled each baggie with contents, usage, and dosage. No doubt Elena had intended to barter her mixtures away at the

Cathedral but had forgotten them when she returned to World's End some eight months before.

One baggie, labeled “emmenagogue,” contained ingredients which included tansy, pennyroyal, and parsley. It warned that overdoses could be lethal, and suggested that women infuse the herbs for 15-30 minutes and drink 3-4 times a day for a week to rid themselves of unwanted fetuses.

Ruth had taken the baggie with her when she left the room. She radioed a forlorn Myriam to tell her she had been unsuccessful in finding any talisman of Michel. Then, she had begun to work on her plan.

99 *

When she rested from her ceaseless quest to save the books of London, Ruth often sat in

her small sofa by the fireplace reading one of her acquisitions. It was the sole joy o f her twilight

years, and many afternoons and evenings passed in this pleasant manner. The others rushed to

and from the house—Deborah, Barak, Essie, Beatrice, and even Matthew, who insisted on

shuffling off to the front yard to pretend the pine trees were rocket ships. She saw little need to leave her home beyond her weekly duties to Alexandria and to the Cathedral. She did not want to

entertain many thoughts of the empty wilderness that had been London. She did not want to

consider how few people could read any more. She would much rather live in worlds made of

ink and paper.

And what worlds they were! She journeyed to lands with elves and orcs, climbed to

Everest, walked the misty streets of Franco's Spain, clambered through a lunar colony,

descended to the center of the earth and under the sea, sat in Regency drawing rooms, rode in

Victorian carriages, and stood on a giant turtle's back. She had her own virtual worlds and she

preferred them over the full-sensory virt-reals of her childhood and the direct-brain simulations

that were the vogue of her old age.

Ruth read and read while London changed beyond her recognition and turned her and her

kin into relics. The First Migration, when the Dens opened in place of the trains, emptied only

the thrill seekers and the desperately poor underground. Both her daughters married. Her

granddaughter was born. During those days, Ruth read Colette in French and Marquez in

Spanish.

100 The Second Migration, when the Tent City opened for permanent rather than temporary residence and moved from money to a barter system, took nearly a third of London over the course of five years as food became scarce and hope for female births plummeted. This was the time of the Riots, and much of London was consumed in fire and looting. Ruth moved to her current residence overlooking the palace gardens,—it and its marvelous library had been abandoned— and there she read the entirety of Dickens from start to finish.

The Third Migration, which started through BritGov campaigns to address the growing food crisis and the technological collapse of aboveground London, pushed most of the weaning population to the Undercity over the course of three years. The monarchy ended, the ports between countries became restricted, BritGov expanded the tunnels and Dens, the virt designers lived on the last animal meat in the country, some top government official rolled out govgrub to substitute for meat. Deborah moved in with her mother. Michel died, and Elena moved in as well. And Ruth, alone in her parlor, read Shakespeare.

Once, her granddaughter and namesake asked her what use she saw in books. “The stories never change,” Ruth told her. “They're written down for you already. Doesn't that bother you? In virt, right, you can change things, write your own story. No one's made the ending yet.”

“Ruth,” Ruth had told her, “I don't think you really understand the joys of reading.”

Her husband Matthew had his accident, her granddaughter disappeared in the Last Great

Migration, Elena left for World's End, Deborah suffered her seventh miscarriage, and the maid

Beatrice joined the household. Ruth was reading Milton.

*

101 When Beatrice finally entered Ruth's sacred room Wednesday morning, scrambling over the Dickens Barricade as if it were meaningless, Ruth was more than ready for the girl.

“Good morning, Ruth.”

Her American accent sounded coarse in the grand room, as it always did, and her tone was a mixture of insolence and fear. At least she did not knock over any of Ruth's books.

Beatrice smiled, seeing the old photographs Ruth was perusing on the table, “Deb was

such a beautiful girl. Elena looks like she's up to no good though! Is that Michel? And Maria? Is that you, Ruth?”

“Indeed,” Ruth said coldly, gathering the pictures up.

Beatrice's smile faded at the other woman's tone, and she looked timidly up at Ruth.

“You called?”

Ruth stared over her empty cup and saucer at the other woman. She was young, younger even than Ruth's granddaughter. The best Ruth could discover, Beatrice had been in London on holiday when the ports had shut down and Barak had managed to obtain her a UK birth certificate. Barak's contacts in the government, while useful for Ruth in other ways, had in this case proven detrimental. Had Barak less influence, Beatrice would have been forced on to one of the departing ships and London rid of her offensive vowels.

“Tea,” Ruth said, gesturing to the full pot. “One of Elena's mixtures. Deborah had asked me to brew it for you. You will have to drink it at least three times a day to prevent the winter flu.”

“Another one? Okay. If Deborah wants that.she.. worries too much about me.”

This was undoubtedly true. Deborah pampered Beatrice to a point of absurdity. Her daughter had the maid drink preventative medicines, receive weekly check-ups from Elena, and

102 even insisted on a monthly massage from that sad woman Joanna who lived in Elena's complex.

When Ruth asked, Deborah always insisted that she feared Beatrice, who was “so very young indeed,” might be susceptible to the disease that had killed off most of her generation. “Maria didn't get ill until she was nearly eleven,” Deborah said. “We must be very careful with her, yes indeed!”

“Beatrice,” Ruth had countered, “is almost sixteen.”

But her daughter had not listened.

Now, Deborah's care worked to Ruth's advantage. Beatrice reached out without suspicion. Her dainty hand with its pink painted fingernails closed around the mug Ruth gave her. She began to sip the drug slowly, her nose wrinkling at the bitterness.

“Ruth, I'm worried about Deborah. She sounded awful when she radioed yesterday. The whole thing with Elena turning up in the night like that.. .and I don't see why Deb hasn't come home since. It isn't like her. And she said she wasn't coming to Mass.. .she never misses Mass! It feels like there's something going on that—”

“This is hardly your business, Beatrice,” Ruth said.

“Look, I was talking over the radio to Barak—”

“Were you indeed?”

For a moment, Beatrice's eyes flashed with anger, but she took a breath to quiet it. She sipped her tea. Ruth waited, wondering if she would snap. She realized, surprised at herself, that she wanted the girl to yell. She wanted an excuse to be even angrier at this audacious child than she already was. This deception was for her own good. Slipping her the poison was a kindness, one which Ruth resented.

103 Ruth decided to push, “You are the maid, here? That is what you do to stay in this house?”

The girl lowered her eyes and had the grace to blush, “I'm only trying to help. I worry about Deborah..This tea is pretty good, anyway. Bitter, but.”

Ruth hated her pretty Asian eyes, her long curly black hair, her smooth skin, her dainty figure. Like a little geisha she was, a conniving thing. Ruth did not understand what hold this young woman had over her youngest daughter, but she could not break their tie without hurting

Deborah, perhaps irreparably. This way was better. It would remove the problem but leave

Deborah, Barak, Beatrice and their odd relationship intact.

In her mind, Ruth conjured an image of Deborah. Ruth compared her youngest daughter to this other woman. Beatrice's skin had a healthy tanned glow to Deborah's stretched pale face.

Beatrice was delicate with oval eyes. Her curly black hair fell nearly to Beatrice's waist.

Deborah's hair was thin and grey with a prematurely old woman's scowl and hooked beak.

Beatrice was wearing jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. Her brassiere, Ruth knew, was lacey and red.

It had dyed the entire household's knickers pink in the last washing. Ruth very much doubted

Deborah even knew that lingerie came in colors other than white. Beatrice was to Deborah as

Bathsheba would have been to David's oldest, least-loved wife.

Ruth despised the maid.

“Remember, Beatrice, you are to have three cups a day spread throughout. And you must take one dose midway through the night. No more and no less. Deborah insists. It is for your health.”

“I..alright then,” Beatrice said. “If it will keep Deborah from worrying so much.

Probably just.well,.. sure. Whatever.”

104 “I will wake you this coming night for your dose and remind you throughout the day.”

“Fine.”

And the young woman left the room, taking her cup of tea with her.

*

“Where is dear Deborah? I do not see her at Mass today, no?” Myriam said, sipping her tea and holding Ruth's fine china with two dainty fingers.

“She is at Parli with Barak, no doubt,” Ruth said.

Her co-parent-in-law and Solomon were in Ruth's parlor eating govgrub sausages for lunch. Father Keegan's sermon had been on the virtues of hospitality, and Ruth was more than eager to show her compliance to scripture, even as she believed the Good Book less and less with every passing year. She delighted in Solomon's love for the sausages, watching him bite until the juices ran down into his long white beard. Myriam's ease in her home, usually a source of discomfort for her, was a kindness now, a reaffirmation as to her abilities as host.

Her friends had brought her more books for Alexandria. Myriam was twirling through

Ruth's stacked alleys of rescued stories like a fairy as she sipped her tea, humming gently under her breath. Her skin was fair and her hair snowy. Ruth had been convinced from the moment she had met the other woman that she would have been mistaken for a nymph in the days of yore.

There was something off about her, something that refused grounding. She reminded Ruth vaguely of her eldest daughter Maria.

“Elena was not at Mass either,” Myriam said. “My darling Elena!”

105 “Perhaps Elena had someone to tend to,” Solomon said. The old man was a harsh contrast to his girlfriend Myriam. He looked as if he were about to fall over. His knobby knees were bent almost to the ground. His skin was the darkest Ruth had ever encountered except for the lodger

Essie Smith. The contrast between the white and the black made Solomon a striking figure even bent double with age.

“I think that likely,” Ruth said. “Though obviously I would not know.”

Elena had not spoken to Ruth since the day she had left her home eight months ago. All she knew of her middle daughter was filtered through Deborah or others. That Elena had unexpectedly spent the night in her old room on Monday was news she had not been told until overhearing Beatrice and Deborah discussing it on the radio.

“I'm sure she'll come around,” Solomon said, taking her hand and squeezing. He said this every time Ruth eluded to the rupture between herself and her daughter. She had rather less faith than he did, naturally.

Just then, her husband hobbled into the room, toppling a stack of books that included the complete works of Jane Austen and Margaret Atwood. Matthew, who after his accident thought himself a boy rather than an old man, nearly tripped over his knobby knees. Myriam gently righting him.

“See my drawing of Mercury,” Matthew said, handing her a sketch done in pencil and crayon. His old hands shook a bit from his arthritis, but his blue eyes were bright and happy.

“Very good Matthew,” Ruth said quietly, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. This was the ninth picture he had shown her within the last hour or two. As all his pictures were of planets, it was difficult to feign excitement over circles with different colors inside them.

“I will show Abigail!”

106 Matthew was convinced that Beatrice was his childhood babysitter Abigail. Beatrice was small even for her age, had Asiatic features, and a slight brown to her skin tone. The pictures

Ruth had seen of the real Abigail were of a middle-aged heavy woman with Nordic features. But then, Matthew had stopped making sense after his accident, and one of Beatrice's few redeeming traits was her patience with him. Ruth, in short, would not complain if she was allowed to read without interruption.

Her husband shuffled off at a young boy's run on old man's legs, tripping over her alleys of books and toppling the entire collection of Medieval Arthurian legends which crashed into her stack of Miracle plays.

“Matthew!”

Her shout did not stop the boy-man, who was already over the Dickens Barricade and into the hall in search of Beatrice, but it unfortunately managed to reach the ears of Beatrice's dog, who began to bark a floor below her. Ruth took a deep breath and carefully walked through the maze of books to the site of the accident and began to put it right. Myriam joined her, smiling sweetly.

“I worry on Elena and Deborah, yes?” Myriam whispered as she retrieved a battered old book from the floor.

“You think I do not?” Ruth said. “They are my daughters.”

The rebuke came out harsher than she intended, and Myriam's face looked rather stricken as she swiftly returned to Solomon on the other end of the parlor.

*

107 When Ruth thought of her failures as a mother, she thought of snowfall.

The day Ruth's Maria had died, the snow had fallen thick and fast, her little child coffin covered in a layer of white even as they laid it to rest. The white remained with defiant purity against the ebony coffin, against the black dresses of mourning, against Father Keegan's long dark robes as he recited the benediction. While Deborah and Elena wailed and cried, Ruth had stood in the snow dry-eyed, watching the coffin carrying her favorite daughter sink far beneath the earth until all she could see of it was the white snow.

The day Ruth's Elena had left her, the snowflakes were falling thick and wet as well,— they had already coated the ground, and the breeze carried them in gentle flurries past Ruth's parlor window. She stood watching the courtyard from five stories up, not flinching when the door to the house slammed shut. It was that sort of snow that fell when a person could still see the sun through the clouds and a hint of blue sky, the snow that Ruth loved most of all when she was a girl playing with her brother Jonathan. It was Abuelita María's favorite snowfall, and it made Ruth remember the times her maternal grandmother had caught her in the back of the head with a snowball or enticed Mamá into building a snow-woman in front of the house when Papa was not watching.

The same snow still fell in the courtyard even as no more children played. The same snow crowded her window and muffled the city's dying breaths. The same snow had already turned her middle daughter's hair white and, from above, Elena looked like a sturdy old woman, her youth obliterated in her studious grief.

The door slammed a second time, and Deborah appeared. She chased after Elena, probably begging for some explanation her elder sister refused to give. Ruth watched the scene from her parlor window as if it were from the pages of one of her many books. She felt a strange

108 numbness from so high above, a removal from the emotional tumult which had engulfed her home since her husband Matthew's accident. The pressure had built like a tea kettle left on the stove, whistling in alarm, and, with Michel's death and her granddaughter's departure, the whistle grew shrill, but now, finally, someone had bothered to check the stove. The inevitable outcome was achieved.

Deborah, red-faced with tears and frustration, was probably trying to reason with Elena, begging, casting a second set of footprints through the crisp snow, her purple scarf trailing behind her, her cane cutting down snowflakes midflight. Elena walked stiffly in front of her sister, her arms crossed and her head upright. She was wearing Michel's jacket which was too tight on her broader shoulders. Deborah followed her across the street and down an alley, but, if her youngest daughter continued to trail the elder, Ruth did not know it. She could not see after they turned the corner and disappeared behind a decaying building. She knew Deborah's attempts were futile.

Elena would not be back.

When Ruth's Deborah suffered her final miscarriage, she had taken the bloody bundle of fluid and bone out into the snow, trailing a bright red line behind her. Barak had followed, begging the wailing woman to see reason. Ruth had walked behind them as well, silently, her eyes glued to the red drops of blood through the snow which brought her eventually to St. James' Park.

She had watched her son-in-law and her daughter bury their seventh unborn child in the cold hard ground under nature's white blanket.

When Ruth thought of her daughters, she saw snowflakes falling thick like frozen accusations in her mind.

109 *

At dinner that night, Beatrice, who was sipping her third cup of the herbs, did not appear to be suffering from any ill effects. True, she had vomited throughout the day—Ruth could always hear her because she did so in the bathroom above the spare room— but she had been doing this for the past week. Morning sickness. Or, perhaps, a benign side effect of the tea.

Either way, it was not a bad sign. The maid picked at her govgrub chicken idly and held her stomach as if suffering from cramps.

“Do you feel well, Bea?” Myriam asked, patting the young girl on the arm.

“Just.. .queasy.”

“The tea will help, yes?” Myriam said. “Elena's teas do wonders.”

“I suppose. I wish sometimes Deborah would stop asking me to drink all these health tonics. I really haven't ever been sick in my life!”

Neither Deborah nor Barak had yet returned home, and Solomon had left for the

Cathedral where he hoped to see his grandson Sam. With Essie also absent for reasons of her own, theirs was a small dinner party. Ruth glanced at Deborah and Elena's empty chairs without comment.

“I want real chicken!” Matthew squeaked. He had dropped his fork and folded his arms across his chest. “This is not real chicken.”

“We have govgrub chicken and lettuce from the garden,” Ruth explained calmly again.

“That is all there is, Matthew. All the chickens died a long time ago now. But the scientists found a way to replicate meat.”

110 Her boy-husband turned his chair away from her and looked over at Beatrice, who smiled

at him.

“Abigail, can I have chicken?”

“There is no chicken, Matt,” Beatrice said. “I'm so sorry.”

“Where is Esther?” Myriam asked Ruth in French.

“Probably drinking,” Ruth responded.

But Ruth was proved wrong when Essie stumbled into the room a minute later carrying a

gun strapped to her waist and a relatively sober expression. The light from the hallway framed

her like a halo. It occurred to Ruth that Essie had been drinking significantly less in the last

month than she had in the previous. The room felt smaller once the big woman had entered it, and Ruth scooted her chair slightly left to provide the lodger with more room. Essie was a heavy

black woman who dwarfed anyone who happened to stand near her. Ruth was convinced she had

once been a man, whatever Barak and Deborah said to the contrary. She had a man's muscles

and a man's build. Her hands were rough and weathered, and her face somewhat squished. This

was not to say Ruth thought her unattractive. Quite the contrary, Essie read Shakespeare. Ruth

approved of anyone who read Shakespeare.

The other woman was wet, Ruth noticed as she stepped closer, and shivering.

“It's raining again,” Essie said. “Went to light the street lamps to make Barak happy. The

air is so damn wet!”

Matthew was pushing the food around his plate with petulant muttering. He removed a

piece of paper and crayons from his pocket and started to draw on the table rather than eat. Ruth

could see a chicken forming on the paper.

“Matthew, you will not draw at the table,” Ruth told him, rubbing her head.

111 I will.

“You will not.”

“I will!”

Ruth, thinking with some strange pride that none of her and Matthew's three children had ever been this annoying or stubborn, rose and walked swiftly to her boy-husband, snatching the piece of paper from her hands. He tried to pull it back from her and the paper tore in two.

“Not at the table.”

Matthew's lip quivered, and he began to wail, a strange sound to come from an old man's lips. Ruth sighed and sat back down.

“Bea?” Essie said suddenly, standing.

Across the table, Beatrice had doubled over, clutching her stomach. “I really don't feel well,” she said softly. “I think I might just...go to bed.”

Matthew stopped crying, “What's wrong, Abigail?”

“Let me help you, yes?” Myriam said. She moved swiftly to Beatrice's side and provided a supporting arm.

“I'm fine, Mimi.”

But Myriam insisted upon accompanying Beatrice up the stairs. Essie was watching the maid with quiet interest, and, when Beatrice and Myriam had left the room, she turned her eyes briefly to Ruth in what she felt was an alarmingly accusatory manner.

“Can you pass the lettuce?” Essie said. Her tone was mild, and Ruth thought perhaps she had imagined the judgement.

“The chicken is quite good,” Ruth said.

“It is fake chicken,” Matthew said. His plate was still untouched.

112 Essie smiled at him, “I don't like govgrub much myself, Matt.”

“I bet there is real chicken on another planet. I can go get some tonight.”

Ruth, whose mind kept wandering to Beatrice, tried to follow Matthew's story if only for the distraction. She thought, not for the first time, that she should write down her child-husband' s tales. This one involved a group of aliens called Hitoians who looked like Earth chickens.

Ruth looked deep into those child-like blue eyes and wondered if anything of the man she had married remained somewhere trapped behind them.

*

Matthew had always wanted to go to the moon. Ruth was sure he never expected to become an astronaut, but, when the space program was discontinued shortly after Deborah was born, he had retreated to his study for nearly a week without a word.

So perhaps his expectations had gone unvoiced.

The Matthew she had married was a quiet man. When he lectured to his students at the university, the room fell to the silence and every one of the poor young minds would be seated forward, straining to hear his near whispered mumbling with frequent throat-clearing. Ruth

sometimes went to the college lectures to remember what her husband's voice sounded like.

They would go weeks without more than a grunt, a good morning, perhaps a vague question or a one-word answer.

Most of what Ruth knew about Matthew was from her observations or from their time dating, when she would question him ruthlessly to determine whether he checked off her list for a desirable partner. That he wanted to go into space she had discovered from the latter process,

113 though his notebooks would have told her as much if she had ever broken his trust to read them.

Even now he guarded those books like little treasures. Ruth did occasionally take one from the

shelf while he slept and worked her way through his shorthand. It seemed important now to

understand the man she had married even if over the proceeding five decades of their

acquaintance she had seen little reason to do so.

When the virtual reality worlds had begun to grow popular, Ruth had assumed Matthew's

opinion on the whole enterprise mirrored her own. She assumed that he had looked on with scorn

and perhaps a small portion of glee, seeing this as the final comeuppance for a world which had

forsaken everything but immediate gratification.

She did not know where he purchased the small virtual portal or how he could have

afforded it. She was not sure how long he had been plugged into it before they found him. It

wasn't unusual for her husband to retreat to his study for days at a time, getting his meals at night

after everyone else had fallen to sleep.

It was Elena who had discovered him. She had snuck into the study to search for a

medical book; Deborah had just had another miscarriage and was bleeding excessively, and the

elder sister was looking for advice to help the younger.

Matthew was lying on his old cot, covered in a thin blanket, his head inside the massive

half oval apparatus of the portvirt. When Ruth was summoned, she at first was convinced it was

a joke. It looked as if Matthew was wearing the helmet of a Medieval knight except there were no eye holes and the metal was smooth like glass. The metal mask extended over his neck to rest

on his collar bone. Ruth thought of shop window dummies. Matthew was faceless, anonymous, a

blank silvery sleek nothing.

114 It took them nearly an hour to work out how to safely remove the portvirt from his head without damaging him. There were no visible switches or wires. Eventually they delivered a verbal command to the device—Essie knew them all—and it released.

“Usually, they only come off if the wearer thinks it off,” Essie said. “But saying ‘Code

Virgil' works from the outside. It's the emergency off switch.”

“What happens,” Elena had asked, “if the voice command is broken?”

Essie had only shrugged.

The program Mathew had selected was to go on the first voyage to Mars as Absalom

Abner the great astronaut and pioneer. They were leaving the moon and in route to the red planet when Matthew was interrupted.

At first, they thought he would never wake up. His heart rate had been slow as a coma patient's, and Elena could do little for him. Doctor Judith concurred with Elena's hopeless diagnosis. But, about three days after they had unplugged him, Matthew woke, smiling and chattering about his adventure in space, and utterly and completely convinced that he was in fact ten years old.

This new boy-man was incomprehensible to Ruth. Matthew had been quiet, secretive, thoughtful, and stern. The boy was always chattering, smiling brightly, trusting, and easily excitable. He tried to run everywhere, only stopping when he realized that a body in the middle of its seventh decade did not appreciate such abuse. One memorable day, he tried to slide down the bannister of the staircase, and only Barak's timely intervention saved his life. At night, he would kneel before his cot—which had become his permanent bed—and pray vigorously to God to go to the moon or Saturn or Mars. His prayers were apparently answered; every morning he

115 was convinced he had just come back from a flight in space and would spend breakfast and most of the morning describing the voyage in detail.

Ruth watched him, fascinated, as he made his way through a world of wonder, brought to tears once by a pebble and turning leaves and flowers into rocket ships. The man she had married went outside so rarely that his skin was nearly translucent, but this boy-man sat outside on the

stoop under the sun until he turned brown. Every day he seemed to forget the day before, if he retained his memories even that long.

He did not recognize Ruth, though he occasionally mistook her for his nan. He thought

Deborah was his mother some days. And Beatrice, of course, was Abigail, his old nurse.

Everyone else, if he addressed them at all, were astronauts or teachers.

Ruth felt how little she knew her husband when she realized that she did not know how much this boy resembled the one he had once been. The Matthew she married had made such little impression on her that this new version had seemingly drowned him out of her memory entirely.

This was unfortunate, because she did not like the new Matthew very much at all.

*

Ruth and Myriam sat on a worn burgundy carpet in front of the fireplace. Both were wrapped in blankets. Ruth's make-shift library was dark but for the flickering flames. The hall

door loomed as a black abyss to their left, and the orange light did not quite reach the high

ceiling or the walls and alleys of books behind them. They could have been sitting in an immense

cave in some prehistoric time if not for the intricately carved mantel covered in quartz roses and

116 the illuminated piles of Thackeray, Whitman, Lewis, and Bronte which busied the carpet. Aside from the crackle of the fire and their hushed voices, only the old wind-up clock made any noise in the room, ticking the seconds steadily from atop an unseen stack of books to their right.

“So,” Myriam said in French.

Ruth braced herself. She was not sure what Myriam had to say but had a feeling that she would not like it over much.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Ruth?” Myriam asked.

Myriam had seen Michel's ghost twice now. Both times at midnight and on the rooftop of

Ruth's house. Because of course it had been midnight on the rooftop! Myriam had wandered out to the streets because of her insomnia, keeping to the area right in front of the white townhouse.

Ruth could picture it: the bird-like woman dancing her way to the street, shivering in the chilled air, heedless of any danger. She stands alone in the misty night unprotected, her nightgown reflecting moonlight. A dancer on the stage. Myriam's eyes are drawn upward against their will and she sees the ghost between the second and third chimneys. She is sure, absolutely and positively, that it is Michel. The ghost looks down upon her for the better part of an hour but then disappears when Myriam moves towards the fire escape to ascend to the roof.

Ruth could see it all in her mind's eye as the other woman told her tale.

“You don't believe me,” Myriam stated rather than asked when she finished.

Ruth did not answer immediately. She did not believe in ghosts and Myriam surely knew that. She loved to read a good ghost story, but she did not believe specters haunted the land beyond ink and paper. She detested when people conflated her love for literature with an inability to distinguish fiction and reality. Since Michel's death and their shared granddaughter's disappearance, however, Myriam had been descending further and further into the occult. How

117 she reconciled this obsession with her devout Catholicism was a mystery beyond Ruth's abilities to penetrate, though she supposed many had done it before.

“He was there,” Myriam told her in French. “I swear to it.”

Ruth looked at her with arched eyebrows, her fingertips touching and her chin resting against them.“An illusion.”

“It was as real as you or me,” Myriam said.

Myriam looked away from her to the fire. The only light available to them in their brave

new world was kind on aging features. Myriam's face was flushed and her wrinkles softened.

Her long locks of white hair, freed from the braids where they were normally kept, glistened like crystal and almost looked blond. Ruth never understood Myriam's need to keep her hair down to her waist. Her mamá had done the same until her dying day, but Ruth had cut her silver as short as a man. Myriam had changed little to adapt to the marching years. Even her nightgown was a flowing silk she had no doubt found in an old lingerie shop, a sharp contrast to the fleece gown that went from Ruth's chin to her ankles.

“What were the moving pictures but ghosts? When we watched films or television in the old days, did we not watch captured ghosts? I wish for my mobile phone most of all at night. I wish to call Elena and hear her voice, but that would be to be haunted. To look at old pictures

stored on my mobile. To listen to music. All spirits held contained in a little device.”

“Fanciful nonsense,” Ruth said firmly, folding her hands. She noted, as she had done before, how musical Myriam sounded when she spoke, noticed how her words filled the air like windchimes and seemed to echo in the large dark chamber.

118 “It would be easier if I could look at his pictures. Watch my old films of his baby laugh,”

Myriam said. “Maybe that is why I see his ghost, yes? Ghosts left when we had pictures and videos or maybe ghosts became those things, but now without them, we have ghosts again.”

“Perhaps you were dreaming,” Ruth deadpanned. Myriam glared at her but said nothing.

Ruth was reminded of her dead son-in-law in the way his mother's nose flared in anger.

The two women stared into the fire for a moment. Ruth thought she could see slithering

snakes coiling and uncoiling there, the braids of light morphing and dissolving. The sharp electrical light would have perhaps brought Myriam back to realism with greater ease.

“I go to the roof tonight to speak to him,” Myriam said.

“Of course you do,” Ruth muttered. “Up that fire escape that might collapse? Onto a roof that has not been maintained in twenty years? At your age?”

“In old times, boys chimney-sweep up there. I saw pictures.”

“And some died. And that was centuries ago! And they were young.”

“I am going,” Myriam said resolutely, tossing her white hair to emphasize her point.

It was Ruth's turn to glare, but the other woman was ignoring her determinedly. The whole plan was foolish to the point of idiocy, not that she expected anything else from her co­ parent-in-law. Elena could have married into a family with more sense, but no, her middle daughter had had to be stubborn.

“Fine,” Ruth said, capitulating. “I suppose I had best go with you. If you fall and break your neck at least I can get help. Or read you your last rites.”

Myriam smiled at her amiably, and Ruth had the impression that this had been the goal of the conversation from the start.

119 “At 11:30 we climb to the roof!” Myriam said, clapping her hands together as would a school girl.

“Foolish nonsense,” Ruth muttered again. At the very least, she thought, it was a distraction from Beatrice. And, when she returned from the roof, she could wake the young woman to give her the nighttime herbs.

*

Ruth had stopped believing in anything supernatural after her Nana Susan's death when she was twelve years old. She vaguely ascribed to Christianity, but even those notions were more ritual than reality to her now. Mysticism lived in the minds of man but not in his world.

Her paternal grandmother had been most unhappily married and had supposedly conducted numerous affairs. She held seances at her home and, family lore stated plainly, had spoken with angels and ghosts in her dreams. Ruth remembered Nana Susan on her deathbed describing heaven as the angels had described it to her.

“Like a mist-filled street, my dear,” Nana Susan had said. “Like the mist of early morning in spring. And the light is rising above the mist. Coloring the mist. Through the mist there are glimpses, just glimpses, child, of more. Flying angels sweeping through the air and a city of gold and gemstone.”

“But Nana,” Ruth said, “will we become angels too?”

“Oh yes, child,” Nana Susan said. “We will all become angels storming through the mist.”

120 Her nana was very pale, paler than any of her other relatives except for her bald toothless great-grandfather whom she called Pap. Through Nana Susan's wrinkled skin, Ruth could see blood veins like rivers streaming down thin arms. Her nana wore rose water perfume and always had a locket with Ruth's grandfather's picture looking out reproachfully in black and white. She refused to own a mobile phone or a laptop—she was part of the Tech-free Movement— and carried a diary with her everywhere she went. When the trembling of her hands overcame her ability to write, she would dictate her dreams to Ruth.

“Raphael told me that soon it will come, within your time, my dear. Write that down. The end of days will come in your time. You will keep these journals for me?”

“Of course, Nana Susan.”

When Nana Susan died, Ruth was with her, and she had looked into the pale face and thought it like a doll's sculpted porcelain with staring grey eyes. Ruth took the diary from the cooling fingers and hid it before she called the doctor into the room; she suspected Nana Susan would want her to prioritize protecting the diary over the doctor closing her dead eyes.

The picture of light and mist Nana Susan painted, the stories she told of the angels and the

Rapture to come, these all had fascinated a younger Ruth, and she had longed for her nana's gift of

sight. Months after her nana's death, Ruth attempted to conduct her own seance, remembering those she had attended and doing further research on the internet. She wanted to know the stories of the long-dead. She wanted to know her great-great-great-great grandmothers on to Eve herself. She wanted to know the times in which they had lived. But she could not make the spirits speak as the old lady with her river veins could.

She had longed for the gift until the day she overheard her father suggest that such magic came from diabolic rather than angelic sources.

121 “There was always something of a witch about Mother,” Dad had said. “For all her donations to the Sisters of Charity.”

“Do not speak so of your flesh and blood,” Mamá had whispered in Spanish so as to hide her words from their servant. “We do not know what rested in her heart. There are mysteries enough for—”

“Maria, do be serious,” her father responded in English.

“I hardly—”

“She was an embarrassment, my mother. She is best forgot.”

Ruth's mamá had begun to speak again in response to this harsh verdict, but the nursemaid Leah had scolded Ruth for listening at the door and taken her to bed, reading her a story about a naughty girl who could not tell a wolf from her grandmother.

The next day, Ruth had burned her nana's diary into ashes.

*

At the 11:30 chimes from the clock sitting on the books behind them, both women rose from the carpet. Ruth had gathered their coats when she had checked in with Matthew and they bundled up tightly against the cold. Ruth carefully situated a wool scarf that had once belonged to her nana around her neck.

“Onwards,” Myriam said. The other woman was clearly excited for their adventure, almost to the point of nerves. She was bouncing like a child with each step, her eyes sparkled brightly when she lit one of the old lanterns they hung near the door to the outside.

122 Ruth just wanted the journey to be over, and lit her own lantern considering how much oil would be wasted on their climb to the roof. They unbolted the seven locks on the door, glanced out at the street with its three oil street lamps Barak had insisted remain lit at night, and walked together outside to the stoop.

It was not raining, but the night was foggy and damp. She could see her breath come out white and thick.

The rickety fire escape had a lock on it, but one so old and rusted that she broke it while trying to unlock it. She supposed, if nothing else, she could report to her son-in-law and to Essie that security was lax in the building.

“Myriam,” Ruth said slowly, testing the first step of the rusted old metal, “Perhaps we can just wait from down here or—”

“I go up!” And Myriam pushed past her co-grandmother to the steps, ascending fearlessly up the stairs. She was at the first-floor deck before Ruth had even started to follow her.

“Stupid, death-tempting nonsense,” she muttered, pulling the rusting gate shut behind her.

What happened if they were trapped on the fire escape and could not get out? Or if the whole thing fell off the house in protest?

Ruth followed Myriam at a slower pace, calling for her to take her time, and the other woman finally stopped at the third-floor deck to allow her to catch up. The two grandmothers made their way up the metal grated stairs to the roof together, then, even if Myriam was bursting to move faster than Ruth.

Ruth felt a momentary disorientation as they left the fire escape for the roof. She was surprised at the height of her own house, and swayed when she looked down the way she had come. She knew every corner of her commandeered mansion, had explored it extensively when

123 she had first moved in, but she had never ventured to stand on top of it. From this high up the city still looked like a city. Rooftops stretched far into the distance, some collapsed, others still intact, but all forming a labyrinth of homes. On Ruth's right, the roof sloped down in graceful shingles which brightened with the moonlight when it peered through the layer of clouds. Mist formed in the crevasses and across the roofs to the right and the left, it clung to the lower streets and turned them from rugged wilds to smooth whiteness. The oil lamp street lights on their block became large dull orange suns far beneath them, swallowed in the mists. No other lights appeared in the once-great city. From here, all they saw were rooftops and chimneys, mists stretching far into the foggy distance as if they had landed in a city built but never inhabited.

The flat patch between the chimneys was quite narrow, and it required both women scrambling on the slanted portion of the roof around the chimney itself to move from level ground to level ground. Ruth was exceptionally glad not to be afraid of heights, for the missing shingles, the grasses that had sprung up here, and the wet leaves all combined to make this very unsafe. As it was, they went one at a time, the other woman holding the lanterns, and Ruth was careful not to look down. When they arrived between the second and third chimney, the flat space could just hold Ruth and Myriam if they stood side by side.

It was cold up here, and Ruth drew her shawl closer, watching her breath come out in smoky puffs. Myriam's teeth were chattering. The chilled breath of wind buried under their skins and turned their arms to gooseflesh even wrapped in their coats. They huddled closer, locking their arms together and finally sitting to stave off the frigid air and the vertigo of their lofty position. They leaned firmly against one of the stone chimneys which was twice Ruth's height and warm, probably with the remains of one of the fires lit in the house below. The next chimney was thirty paces from them, and it was there Myriam insisted she had seen her ghost.

124 “It is bitter cold,” Ruth said quietly, shivering.

“Do you think we are in time?” Myriam whispered.

Ruth's windup wristwatch put the time at 11:50. She was astonished only twenty minutes had passed since they had walked out the door.

“Ten minutes to spare,” she told Myriam.

“Should we?” Myriam pointed to her lantern and made a motion for blowing it out.

Ruth shook her head, “How do you plan on getting down again?”

“I just thought perhaps ghosts prefer...”

Myriam trailed off and set her lantern down beside her without extinguishing it. Ruth copied her and folded together her hands.

“Are you frightened?” Ruth asked.

“Why would I fear Michel?”

Ruth looked sideways at her face but said nothing.

“When Michel was a boy, he had long curly hair. I always thought him the most beautiful child in the world. Perhaps a mother's thoughts always, yes? He and I walked to the market together and he would hold my basket while I shopped and he would dance on his little legs every time I gave him a piece of fruit. Only organic foods for my Michel! I could not bear for him to grow up and lose that baby smile. I wished to keep him always small and make sure he was mine.”

“My María was like that,” Ruth said softly. “She always looked like an angel, like she was not real. I can't imagine her grown up. She would walk by herself through the house, pacing up and down, muttering. She told me once she was writing stories in her head. When she couldn't walk anymore, she would take her stuffed animals and play out her stories in her bed.”

125 “Dear Deborah and Elena were beautiful children too,” Myriam simpered. “I remember their baby pictures. And our Little Ruth...the most beautiful child of all!”

“I wish we had thought to print real pictures back then—to take them off the phones and computers. I have so few now.”

“Bah, we thought of nothing.”

They fell silent. The moon had snuck past the clouds again, and the mists seemed to glow bright around them. Ruth reached to touch the mist which drifted past her, feeling the damp that gathered on her gloves with fascination. She wondered how long Myriam would insist they wait before they could return to the fire's warmth, to their beds below.

*

She sometimes dreamed about the choice which had sent Elena away from her. An ordinary day a month after her granddaughter had gone into the Undercity. She was sorting books for Alexandria and Matthew was drawing snowflakes. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she had said.

Standing framed in the doorway was a young woman. Her hair was greasy and hung in clumps against her face. She had the stoop of a down-dweller and the eyes of a down-dweller.

Her skin had been artificially turned white as chalk or bone. Her lips were black, her nose was black, her eyelids and the circular area around her eyes were black, and a black tattoo of a rose decorated her left cheek. She looked like a skeleton brought to ghastly life, like a creature one would meet on El Dia de los Muertos, but Ruth knew it was not paint that could wash off. The transformation was permanent, dyed and tattooed into her skin. Her hair was dyed blood-red and

126 painted false eyebrows mimicked their color. Her eyes flashed an unnatural silver, and they fell down to the carpeted floor in awkward discomfort. She was blinking rapidly. Ruth knew she could not bear the light anymore. Her new eyes were made for the Undercity and the dark.

“I've come on up to see Mum,” the woman said. “You know where she is?”

Ruth felt for a moment as if she could not breathe. A ghost. A ghost come back from the dead and dragging with it all those memories Ruth did not want to examine. It could not be her granddaughter. Her granddaughter Ruth was dead, had gone to the Undercity never to return, had disappeared beyond ability to recall. Her granddaughter was a word made archaic and obsolete, she would never come back.

It wasn't her granddaughter. Whoever stood here was a stranger.

“Where is Mum?”

Matthew was whimpering, frightened of the subhuman creature standing in the parlor wearing what looked like the remnants of one of his old suits. Ruth shushed him, trying to think through the situation.

“Who are you? And why are you in my house?”

“Gran, look, it's me. Know I'm lookin' different 'n all, but...I just...I just need.. .I wanna talk to Mum, apologize quick.. .can't stay long. Wanna plug on back in tonight. But..."the down-dweller could not seem to find the right words.

“I don't know who or what you are, but this house is not a place for you. I have a lodger who is quite proficient with a gun.” "I--"

The look on her face, even under all the make-up, even under all the alterations, was stricken.

127 “Leave and do not come back!”

And the down-dweller had backed out of the room. Taking away her foul stench and her

silver eyes. She had left.

And perhaps the story would have ended there, but that Matthew could never keep his

mouth shut. It took him nearly a week, long past the point that she thought he would have

forgotten. But no, they were in the parlor, Elena drawing with him, and he somehow felt

compelled to speak.

“The skeleton girl with the silver eyes, looking for her mum,” Matthew said to Elena.

“She was scary. But she,” Matthew pointed at Ruth, “she made her go away.”

Two hours later, Elena left for World's End.

*

Just as Ruth was contemplating her arguments to convince Myriam to return back inside,

Ruth inexplicably saw a figure in the shadows of her roof, walking along the slanted shingles and

around the second chimney as if it had appeared from the mists.

But it was not Michel.

The mistake for Michel was easy to make. The woman's shape was much like Ruth's

son-in-law's form. From a distance, it would be easy to see Michel in the folds of the great cloak

which covered her from head to foot. She was bald beneath the hood drawn up over her head, and her skin was nearly translucent in the night. The eyes under the cloak glowed gold with light

as bright as their lanterns, and Ruth knew this woman had taken the drug hallelujah. The hands

peeking out from under the black robes had river veins. For a moment, Ruth was sure that it was

128 in fact Nana Susan —it looked so like her!—but that could not be any more than it could be

Michel. The figure was solid. She was sure of it. This was not an apparition.

“Michel!” Myriam whispered.

“It is not Michel,” Ruth said, looking at her companion credulously. But Myriam had fallen to her knees and was crying.

“It is... not,” she said slowly, as if willing herself to believe it.

The woman beckoned Ruth, holding a halting hand to Myriam. Then she turned and made her way around the second chimney, waiting on the other side.

“Go,” Myriam whispered. “Follow it.”

Ruth did not need her encouragement. She walked forward slowly, like a nocambulist entranced, and barely registered scrambling around the chimney, barely saw the height, barely understood whether she was in reality or some strange dream.

“Ruth, daughter of Maria,” said the woman, her voice like ice.

“I am she,” Ruth said, not knowing how else to respond.

The woman smiled, “Fear, Ruth, for you lose favor with us. A child comes, to rule over the fallen. A child with a journey long before her through fire and cold. Beyond the grave and the end. A spirit made flesh.”

“Who are you? How much hallelujah have you taken? My daughter is a doctor. We could go to her in the morning.”

The woman was smiling an unnerving smile, “I am well, but for the fires I carry always. I am well.”

“You are not.”

129 “We protect the woman,” she said. “Do you have no guilt for what you do to the deflowered mother, the honored one, chosen among woman for her task?”

Ruth froze, “I don't know what you are talking about.”

The woman laughed a high and cold laugh.

“Please, let us help you,” Ruth said slowly. She reminded herself that hallelujah always gave people uncanny insight. This woman didn't know anything about Beatrice. This woman didn't know anything about her. It was just the drug.

“We do not need help. Can you see? All things are possible. Join us, and you will see,” the woman said.

From her cloak, she pulled out a long golden needle. Ruth backed up but stumbled, nearly losing her balance. The ground was far, far below. The other woman laughed and grabbed her, pulling her back to the safety of the roof, but then her hand closed over Ruth's right arm in a vice-grip.

“You will see.”

Before Ruth could move, before she could struggle, the needle broke her skin.

Ruth screamed. She tried to move away. Her arm jerked from the other woman's grip. It was too late. The damage was done.

The needle had penetrated her skin, and her blood coursed with hallelujah. She could feel it pouring through her system, feel the sudden elation, and everything took on a strange glow. It was as if she were standing far above the roof, looking down upon it and the broken city and then flying across the stars. The mist glowed golden and the city lit up as if it were day.

It was day.

130 The moon provided better light than the sun. Ruth smiled, feeling as if all her worries had fallen from her. She was young, her body as it was in youth. She was more than she had ever been. Powerful, capable of learning anything if she so chose. The complicated equations

Matthew used to work on to explain the stars were now child's play.

“Glory be,” she murmured.

“Do you see?” The woman with her glowing eyes was whispering to her, drawing Ruth forward and pointing to the chimney opposite. The roof was much larger than it had been a moment ago. The shingles were all back in their proper places, and they had become silver mirrors.

Ruth looked back to Myriam. The woman with the golden eyes was floating back towards her. Ruth watched, wondering if she could float too.

Then she let out a stifled gasp of horror that sounded like barking laughter.

She tried to scream, but instead her lips stretched into a face-splitting smile. She wanted to vomit but only laughed again.

The woman with the golden eyes was transforming. Now, a creature stood on her roof. It was not human. It had snake-like eyes and a long slithering tongue. The beast was enormous, muscled, vaguely reptilian with massive wings. It did not look real, but she knew it to be real.

Myriam stood next to it unknowing, unseeing, unaware of her danger. Myriam was mouthing words that meant nothing to Ruth.

Myriam was unimportant. She forgot her, and she disappeared.

“The glory of the dragon!”

Ruth crossed herself in alarm. The beast smiled at her, holding tight to a human figure that had appeared from thin air. It was a woman, naked with black hair streaming behind her. She

131 stood flush against the creature, moving up and down, impaling herself again and again in ecstasy on the beast's great penis. Her moans echoed across the roof, and the slick wet coupling grew faster and faster as it reached completion.

The woman was Beatrice. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, her mouth open in a wide

O of pleasure. She was more beautiful than she had ever been.

Ruth tried to look away but was helpless. She was laughing maniacally. Stars were shooting across the sky in a grand spectacle. The city was gone and she, the beast, and Beatrice, were standing on clouds with stars above and below them. Beatrice's moans turned to cries of pleasure until she came to a glorious orgasm, the stars bursting to novas around them with her climax. She was still riding the demon who held her. Her body quivered with aftershocks, her eyes now open but unseeing.

“Take care, Ruth, daughter of Maria,” the beast told her with a snarling voice like night.

“Do not interfere with my creation.”

Beatrice went limp in the creature's arms, and Ruth watched her belly swell with child, months passing in mere moments. The beast spread its wings, and took the lifeless pregnant girl tight to its chest before soaring into the sky.

Ruth was falling, still laughing though she wanted to cry, falling towards earth and crashing on to the roof with a dull thud. She felt no pain, she felt nothing but strange exhilaration.

For a long time that might have been seconds or hours, Ruth lay on her back on the roof, laughing until she cried. Then, there was a shout, and Myriam screamed. Ruth lifted her head in time to see someone on the roof scrambling around the chimney. Whoever it was lost his or her footing and

132 fell forward. It all seemed to happen slowly for Ruth. She stood, ran to help him, or to push her,

she was not sure. The night was like day and she could see every detail, could watch the bits of dirt kick into the air and glitter like gold. The breath coming from her mouth was silver light. She could see every detail, but the figure's face was blank and featureless. Myriam was trying to get closer, trying to help, but she was too late.

Ruth was there, right next to the edge. She reached forward. And then she watched the body rise into the air and fall downwards in a graceful arc. Her face split into another painful

smile. “Glory be.”

Ruth ran back, nearly falling over the roof herself. Myriam was hysterical. Ruth hit her.

And then they were running back around the chimney. They practically ran down the fire escape, rushing desperately, Ruth catching her hand on the metal, her hand was bleeding and the blood glowed a bright neon red, they were both turned mute in their horror, Myriam was

sobbing, they were on the ground.

The figure had fallen to the right of the house and had landed on its back. The ground glowed red with blood, glistening bright like rubies in Ruth's drugged eyes. They rushed closer and then she fell to her knees, and her scream again came as violent laughter.

It was Matthew, his legs were twisted oddly under him and his arms rested across his chest as if in sleep. His eyes were open and there was a smile on his face. He was dead.

133 Countdown: 3 Days

The Tents in Naraka under Brompton are lit in all manner of colors, power goin' through the generator 'til everyone plugs on in. It's been partyin' for days on end now, sayin' so long to the meat-world, 'n Orpah feels more than prepped for her ARC. She's a-tirin' o' all the revels, truth be told.

She weaves her way through the Tents, keepin ' a hand at her hip to reach for her dagger, as you do to make damn well sure no one gives you trouble. She strokes the green 3 on her palm, glowin' bright 'n sure.

She wants to plug in something bad. Longest time she hasn't since she came from topside. Near a month. Can't bear much more.

“Hey pretty, pretty!” a man catcalls. “Pretty, pretty!”

Orpah ignores him sharp. A group of govboys come on out of a Red Tent. One's naked

'cept for a bright indigo tie. A naked govgal, an old thing, crawls out on a leash, battin' large indigo eyelashes matchin' up wi' the tie. You've never seen the like when Naraka goes all in!

The other govboys are laughin' their moods dry. Neb sets off fireworks again in the blue tent, screamin' out a drunken song. Everything smells like smoke 'n moods 'n brews.

Orpah moves on forward to the Turnstile.

Some drunk govboys sit there, rifles at the ready, watchin' her wi' their black eyes.

“Chip?”

Orpah holds it up for one to scan.

“Three days, huh?”

“Yessiree,” Orpah says, smirkin'.

“Good on you, gal.”

134 The govboy nods 'n motions her through the gate. Another one reaches out 'n smacks her arse as she enters. The first goes on to cup her breast. She doesn't care, not today.

The Inner Tents are residential all. It's safer here than in the Outer Tents. Rumors are a- roarin' that everyone in the Inner Tents will be needin' to sign ARCs or reb out. Orpah doesn't know near anyone who hasn't signed up. It's a ghost-town here.

Vashti's sittin' on a turned up box, playin' at the cards. She reads the cards for fun now 'n then. She's not holloin' 'n looks young. Twelve maybe. Orpah watches her turn the cards one after another. Queen o' spades, 2 o' hearts, 7 o' diamonds.

“Where're your folks, Vashti?” Orpah asks.

“Plugged in,” she says. “Went two days ago.”

“When do you leave the meat?”

“Don't know,” she says. Her eyes stay on the cards. “Not signed yet.”

“Don't wanna miss the boat!” Orpah says.

Vashti doesn't look at her, though.

“You missin' on Ahab, Vash?”

“Sometimes,” she says.

Orpah smiles, “You won't remember him in virt if you don't want to. Can just make a new Ahab too.don't.. need to be lonesome.”

“This isn't 'bout Ahab, Orp,” Vashti says. She still hasn't looked at her, just starin' at the cards. Orpah decides to leave her be to her own time. You need to work through some on your own, twelve or no.

Naraka be emptyin' like it's upper London! Her friends all are disappearin'. Gomer plugs on in this morning. She glances to Gomer's old tent. Wonders what'll happen to it.

135 Laz is squattin' at one o' the last tents. He's a born-again. Looks three decades but acts like a kid. Spends too long in virt. Laz has dark skin 'n black tats up his arms. He likes to build things out o' rubbish. He's makin' a train wi' bits from broken ‘trons 'n pots 'n pans.

“Hey there, Laz,” Orpah says. “Nice train.”

“Like it fine,” he says. Born-agains are strange fish. She leaves him to his own time too.

Her destination's in the train graveyards. Jez has taken to walkin' the tunnels as she waits

'n waits for plug-in day. Walks 'tween Naraka 'n Annwn most times, but goes up 'n down through the train graveyard as far north as Tartarus 'n west as Hades. Her meat's been restless.

The train tracks melted down a long time ago now, but some o' the trains still line up here

'n there in the tunnels. Govboys live there usual when they aren't on duty or partyin' up at

Buckingham Palace topside. Once a govboy asks Jez to come on inside a train 'n be his gal, but she laughs him off. He makes her suck him off in the tunnel, but nothing worse than that. Orpah hears of gals gettin' all sorts done to them in the trains.

Just another reason it's better bein' in virt than out.

Orpah stays shy of the trains, 'n walks on through the dens burrowin' in the tunnels, the

Dens where you go to plug in to virt.

People are chokin' the tunnels o' air these days. All holdin' out their ARContracts, talkin', enterin' into dens wi' smiles big as anything when their plug-in time checks out right.

BritGov props, meanwhile, are standin' on boxes 'n shoutin' above the noise:

“End of the world! End of the world! Play act the apocalypse for practice! We'll run until the power runs out! Full-time plugins with an ARContract! Transitions to other realities!

Plan your life story!”

136 “Come dream a little pleasant dream! Beaches, fresh fruit, the mythical icecree! Come get it! Connected to the whole virtnet!”

“Be a queen! Cleopatra herself! Take in the breath-taking palaces! You won't remember a thing, guaranteed! Covered under the ARC contracts.”

“A new adventure every year! Long time satisfaction. Plan your life-long journey around the world and change your plan in virt!”

“Be a patriot! Save the human race! Plug on in and evolve!”

“Ordinary life circa the height of civilization ! Software embedded to allow for virtual children! Choose your dream package!”

“Online with all other virts! Perfect for families!”

Orpah ignores the sellers. They're all just uppers pretendin' to be down wi' it. She wonders why they bother. Everybody's pluggin' in now. They don't need to sell nothing anymore. She elbows through the crowds tryin' to reach open tunnel space. It's crowded as ever

'n the smell's something atrocious.

“ARContract?” a man's hustlin' her.

“Goin' to the tunnels,” she says, givin' him the finger. She shows her palm off firm. He glares daggers at her 'n his eyes perv out her breasts. She should be holoin' all the time just to avoid the looks.

It gets her a-thinkin' on how much better virt will be. She smiles big as she passes a

Guardian, wearin' her BritGov robe. They're the ones'll keep the Virt runnin'. Volunteered to keep everything goin'. 'Course VirtNet is all auto now. But the Guardians'll make sure all the programs are in their proper place for a time. This one is an old gal wi' big sad eyes. She doesn't smile on back at Orpah.

137 Not at all.

She 'n Jez have been solvin' a problem: both want very different virt rules, you see.

Orpah likes her adventures. She turns pirate queen or goes a-questin' through a fantasy world as a wizard. She enjoys history in partic. Grandma Ruth prob'ly got her there.

Jez don't mind adventures now 'n then. Believes she can get in touch wi' her past lives.

But she likes pamper-virts. Goin' to an island, watchin' seas under a settin' sun or takin' a dip in a hot spring 'n floatin'.

Orpah doesn't mind those virts either. She can harp away there.

Both like not rememberin' the real world or thinkin' too much. They like becomin' something else. Gettin' new lives.

They've gone 'n planned their virt experience careful, then. It has options for unexpected adventures 'n they can go off together, or Orpah can go it alone. They also went 'n designed a luxury Egyptian palace with virt servants to take care o' their needs. Both'll be able to go transformin' whenever they want to. They've made a code word they can go sayin' together to revert their virt to its pamperin' if Orpah gets too big on adventurin'.

It's their plan, the first big choice they're makin' as linked gals. They've spent days ironin' out the details. Thought it all through. Orpah knows they can design in virt, but she likes a plan. Jez doesn't plan much, but does it to be respectin' her gal.

Decidin' how much they want to remember o' the meat-world is hard. The plan's a part memory wipe. They'll remember their names 'n each other 'n important markers. Their friends.

Their families. But only the good memories. Orpah doesn't want to remember Papa's death or how her mum doesn't want her. Nope, ditchin' those memories 'n leaving them in meat-world.

138 They won't know the virt isn't real. They'll think bein' able to control things is normal as it comes.

You know it's better that way.

She catches up with Jez in the Tunnels deep down halfway to Tartarus. Jez's blessin' the tunnels with basil.

“For when we leave,” Jez says. “Gotta make sure the tunnels got their blessing. No bad karma here.”

“Fine 'n dandy,” she says.

Orpah breathes in the burnin' sage, takin' an extra stick from her gal to help wi' the blessin'. Vashti told them 'bout basil. Says it drives away ghosts 'n ghouls. While Orpah doesn't believe in any of that hulabaloo, she thinks the tunnels feel haunted in their way.

“So,” Jez begins slow. “We gonna talk over seein' your mum before we go?”

Orpah snorts 'n then frowns when she realizes her snort sounds like her mum's. “It won't do no good, Jez. Tried once. Never again. My mum won't never come round, not if the sky started rainin' fire 'n some angel came down from the clouds to tell her that you 'n I are in love

'n virt's the way to heaven.”

Jez frowns, “You don't know that, Orp. Maybe your grandma just...maybe she told you wrong, right?”

“I do so know,” Orpah says. “Don't wanna talk it over anymore.”

“Okay,” Jez says slow. “But we could wait, if you want, stay in the meat long 'nough for.”

“I'm ditchin' the meat on Sunday. You 'n me both,” Orpah says harsh. “Tent City's near empty.”

139 Jez looks at her wi' her scrunched-up frown, the one that turns her freckles to lines.

“Everybody's pluggin' in.”

“Yep.”

But they keep right on blessin' the tunnels anyways.

140 Deborah

Friday morning dawned bright and cheery after a week of rain. Deborah knelt by the lake in St. James's Park. A large yellow maple tree stood tall above her. It had probably grown here since before her birth, and it gave her a certain degree of peace to think it would be here after she had gone to heaven. The breeze blew the leaves down, many already decorating the surface of the lake. She missed the ducks. One of her favorite childhood memories came from sneaking crusts from ham and cheese sandwiches into her pockets while the nuns looked the other way.

She and Elena came here, tossing the crumbs to the tawny chicks whilst their modest mothers clucked a chorus of disapproval.

Deborah's skirts pooled across the leave-strewn ground. They were a deep blue with neat white stitches she had done herself to make crosses. Her coat was black and billowing. Her radio, whose battery the government had confiscated to prevent any leaks to above ground London, was strapped uselessly against her hip.

She stroked her silver pistol. Deborah had killed twice in self-defense: the first time it was a secularist who had followed her and Barak from church during the Riots; the second time it was a down-dweller who had pushed Deborah up against a building and demanded sex. That was when Deborah was still beautiful. Before her miscarriages had slowly taken her looks from her. In the time when Barak still adored her. In the time when men would whistle as she passed.

She doubted she would have to take such extreme measures in the near future. No one would come here. They never did anymore. More's the pity, because the parks had never been so beautiful as they were now that they had been given back to God's care.

141 Amidst the fallen leaves in front of her, the earth rose into seven mounds and at the top of each was a raised wooden cross. The mounds were too small for proper graves, but each cross bore a name: Maria, Sarah, Leah, Rachel, Gabriella, Evelyn, Noel.

Deborah reached forward to touch each cross gently, her fingers skimming the wood as one would touch a holy relic or brush a child's hair. Then she rose slowly from the leaves, leaning heavily on her silver cane, and backed away, crossing herself. She turned, her long blue skirts rustling, and left the graves behind her.

*

Deborah had always been the most attractive of Ruth's daughters. Maria perhaps could claim grace, and Elena had the brains of the family, but Deborah was the beauty. No one could argue against that! When all three were in primary school, the nuns made the youngest girl a pet.

They dressed her in their robes and sat her on altars. For a time, the spoiled little darling had sworn she would take up the habit. But instead she had blushed and giggled her way through her lessons, learning how to charm Shakespeare if not how to read him, and danced her way to one of the most eligible bachelors in London's diminishing upper crust.

Imagine Deborah, fresh from school, dressed in a crimson gown, her little feet in heels.

Her creamy arms bare and her bust raised. Enticing innocence. Coy boldness. Mother, who appreciates the traditions of old, watches on and sees her daughter more as a figure from a book than a woman growing aware of her powers. Only Mother is not surprised, then, when the fairytale unfolds: A young man asks Deborah to dance, a young man with sparkling brown eyes

142 and a sardonic brow, a Rhett for our Scarlett. Barak exudes power. Deborah coos. And in a moment they are already in an overlarge church saying “I do.”

Deborah was the most beautiful of Ruth's daughters, but she was more beautiful still when paired with Barak. Together they had stood in the smoky backrooms of Parliament, at the camera-lit ceremonies, in the private dinner parties. She was a minx. He was a rogue. Part of their power came from their sheer aesthetic charisma. They were pleasing to look at. Unparallel.

Majestic. See how his tie matches her dress! The way they lean into each other. How she fits into the curve of his arm. He is exotic—his parents from Egypt! And she, the good middle-class

English rose.

Baby girls were dying in the womb, young girls growing ill, and the world was in crisis.

The scientists argued. The politicians ignored their recommendations. The masses panicked and then grew insipid. The First Great Migration changed the face of London forever. And Barak and

Deborah danced their way up crystal staircases of power, the delight of all who saw them.

In a different world, Deborah would have been wife to the Prime Minister by now. An

Evita or a Jackie. Woman would have modeled their clothes on Deborah's. Men would have masturbated to her image. Her marriage bed would have become a central topic for the tabloids.

But that is not the world God saw fit to give Deborah. No, not indeed! She trusted His ordained plan for that without it she should not have found her faith. Always she had been a believer, but her suffering had made her devout.

The new world did not value glamor, and it allowed few to keep it. There were no more parties. No more cameras. Even the tabloids had abandoned upper London. The woman who would have been an icon found the society which was to idealize her had turned inward for its fantasies. So, Deborah, who knew nothing practical or firm, had been left dancing on air.

143 Deborah did not dance anymore. She walked quietly through the streets, using her cane to find holes in the ground and to avoid the buried metal. She had traded her jewelry for the

BritGov badge on her chest and the gun strapped at her hip. Her looks had faded and the face that frowned back at her from the pool of water on the pavement was old and worn. No one would think that she had once waltzed with Barak, the most eligible bachelor in London, across a marble floor!

The day shone gloriously beautiful, as if God was laughing at their troubles. The sky was blue and cloudless. It was chilly but not quite cold. All the leaves on this street had turned red and orange. Deborah thought the city looked prettier now that the people had left it. Though she did wish the buildings would stop decaying so. She passed a modern theatre where once she and

Barak had sat in the top box and smiled down at all the nosy misses and sirs.

What an arrogant little thing she had been before Jesus had subdued her heart.

Consulting her watch, Deborah knew it was not yet ten. Her trip away from Parli would not impede her attending the very special meeting Athaliah was giving at noon. The whole day lay ahead of her. She stopped on the steps of an old apartment building for a moment and sat down. She was tired. It had been a very long three days staying at Parli.

Across the way, Deborah watched two govboys carrying a large white cooler. They were sweating in the bright sun. The thick black sunglasses reminded everyone they were down­ dwellers. They paused and set the cooler down, wiping their brows. One of them tipped his hat at her.

“Hello Missis,” he said. “What brings you over this way?”

Deborah explained that she was going to take her sister from protective custody. She flashed her papers and spoke a great deal nervously—Barak gave her certain influence in such

144 things, but sometimes govboys acted before thinking. Fortunately, they both nodded. Perhaps if she still had her looks, they would have argued more, would have seen her as a woman instead of a citizen. They would have called her “miss” then, not “missis.” Looked at her as something worth pursuing rather than an old lady.

She asked them what they were doing in this part of town.

“Just bringin' some meat for processin' up to the govgrub station on Tothill. Takin' a shortcut.”

Deborah nodded, uninterested. She was gathering her strength to get back up again.

“You be careful, now, Missis. The streets ain't no place for a lady like yourself.”

Deborah watched them going, leaning on her cane and standing once more. Her hand rested gently on the crucifix at her throat, and she sent up a private prayer to the Mother of God for whom her oldest sister had been named.

*

When they were children, Elena and Deborah often played with dolls. Deborah always enjoyed this more than Elena. The older sister would only tolerate the play because she could paint lipstick on the dolls to create cuts which she could bandage, practicing “being a doctor.”

“Why?” Deborah would whimper. “Why did you hurt Lucy?”

“She had an accident, and I'm making her better,” Elena said.

Deborah dressed the doll all in black, wrapping the bandaged arms neatly so she would not have to look at the fake wounds. She found one of Mother's black scarves to cover the doll's

145 head. After ransacking Abuela Maria's oak wardrobe with the lions, she found a spare crucifix for Lucy as well.

“Now she's a nun,” Deborah said. “And God has healed her.”

“Hush, girls.” That was Mother appearing at the top of the stairs. “Keep your voices quiet. Don't wake María.”

Both were afraid of Mother and did what she said, turning their quiet prattle to whispers.

Maria was already ill by then, and the house had fallen into the perpetual silence of a cemetery. Doctors came and went, grave and bent. They stared at both girls as if they were ghosts, already bereaved before the corpse left the home. Often, the doctors would examine them, monitoring their health, drawing blood samples, asking questions about the color of their urine or how tired they were or whether they had headaches. Many of them, like the nuns at their

school, were enchanted with Deborah's beauty. They brought her gifts or gave her an extra pat on the head. But they still asked for the tests.

“Maria's the one sick,” Deborah told them.

“Are you going to make her better?” Elena asked.

“Girls, do as you are told,” Mother whispered.

Both remembered their sister Maria in small snapshots. She wrote poetry. She was, especially for a child, devout, carrying around her crucifix and playing with prayer beads. She would fold her will to either of her younger sister's if pushed. Even before she grew ill, Maria was distant. She read a great deal. Elena and Deborah had sat and listened to Maria read aloud from the Brothers Grimm late into the night. Deborah found the stories frightening and would hide under the covers, filling her ears with pillows.

146 Maria was Mother's favorite. As her eldest daughter wasted away, Mother would spend hours in her room reading to her. Dad, meanwhile, disappeared into his study pouring over star charts and writing copiously in his little black notebooks. Deborah would sometimes go with him and sit there in the peaceful study, talking over her day. She felt privileged in being one of the few people who could make her father smile.

“Why would you make Lucy a nun?” Elena would ask her sister, gesturing to the black clad doll. They were always whispering even two floors below Maria's sick chamber.

“What else is there to be anymore?” Deborah said.

Elena had not argued with her even then.

*

Maria's grave was on Old Pye Street. Deborah used to go there as a girl after her classes at the Catholic school. Her dreams of being a nun always included staying forever in the church with its glittering stained-glass windows and its small graveyard where her sister was buried. She rather enjoyed considering how such perpetual sisterly worship would make her angelic.

Deborah had had so very much pride before Jesus had subdued her heart.

The church had been abandoned a long time ago. The roof was collapsed. The graveyard overrun as mourners went beneath their dead. Deborah rarely came here now. But it was at the

school down the street from the graveyard where Maria awaited judgment that the govboys had taken Elena. Her sister was, in all probability, still woozy from the drugs they had given her. She probably would barely remember her kidnapping or being held in this nameless facility where

147 she had once learned her ABCs. She had only been incarcerated for three nights and two days after all.

They had promised not to hurt her. She hoped very much they had not hurt her.

She hesitated at the entrance to Maria's cemetery. She almost went to visit, but thought the needs of her living sister overruled those of the dead.

Two govboys were at the door of the building where they were keeping Elena. They yielded to her official papers only after a third inspection. One escorted her in. He smelled of whiskey and vanilla.

The modest brick building had been converted to a hospital of sorts whose occupants were mainly relatives and friends of formerly wealthy uppers. The patients were in rehabilitation from virtual reality or moods. Many were being held forcefully above ground. Barak convinced

BritGov to fund this project nearly eight years ago, hopeful that it could provide answers to reverse the Migrations and end virtworld addictions. Unfortunately, the state of the art facility he had imagined had given way to a place more akin to Bedlam. He made Deborah aware of the hospital when her father lost his mind, and they had debated whether or not they should take Dad here but ultimately decided against it. She knew that many of the patients never left these grounds, could never accept the real world as real, and she had not wanted her father trapped in these walls when he posed a threat to no one.

In the murky dark of the hall, Deborah could hardly see. All the windows had been boarded up. The only light came from kerosene lamps which hung at about ten step intervals. It stunk of urine and vomit and oil. Murmuring echoed through the building and was punctured with screams. The classrooms were curtained off into cells. The doors where teachers once hung student art had been removed and replaced with metal bars. The glass cases that once held

148 trophies and awards had become cabinets for sedation drugs. Inside each cell, Deborah saw five to seven beds. Many held adults in various stages of undress, but Deborah knew the hospital was emptying. As the attendants went underground, so too did the patients. A sane person was in one room, praying over what looked like a mother and her young son, both of whom had dyed their skin the color of neon yellow. There were no doctors that Deborah could see. The place was more prison than rehabilitation center now.

The only cheering aspect of the building were the children's drawings done in crayon and marker that appeared from time to time taped on the walls.

“How did they survive?” Deborah mused aloud, struck by a picture of a little girl in a red dress holding a green umbrella over an orange cat. She reached out and stroked the waxy crayon marks, trying to picture the little boy who must have drawn this—a little boy who was imagining a girl-child he had never seen in reality. Deborah felt her heart clench.

“They weren't done by kids, ma'am.”

She decided not to ask anything more after that.

She tried not to hear the constant whispering, tried not to hear the shouting coming from the room to her left, tried not to hear what sounded like a prayer to Mother Mary said over and over again in Spanish. In one room, Deborah thought she saw a naked man making snow angels in a pile of torn-up paper. In another, a bald, toothless woman was crooning to a doll that looked greatly like Lucy. There was a clink; a door opened. Two govboys led out a woman about

Deborah's age with streams of silver matted hair. Her skin had been dyed wine-purple and her eyes lacked any color but black.

“This is not real, not real, not real, not real. A trick. Gov trick. Not real, not real, not real,” the woman was repeating over and over under her breath. She was bound with her arms

149 across her chest so she could not hurt herself, but Deborah could see the deep red marks on her wrists and up her arms that looked like they had been made with fingernails. A long scratch ran straight down from her left eye to the corner of her lip. “Not real. You will not convince me! Not real!”

“Ma'am?” the govboy leading her said gently. Deborah had stopped dead watching the other woman. She forced herself to turn away. She tried to tune out the screams coming from the classroom-turned-cell across from her. The screams sounded like they came from a young boy.

“First time, ma'am?”

“Just take me to my sister. Yes indeed, my sister. She is not...she should not be here. No, no, not at all.”

The govboy who smelled of whiskey and vanilla looked at her in such a way that

Deborah had the distinct impression he had heard people claim this before.

Elena's room was an old janitor's closet. She was by herself, as Deborah had requested.

Deborah heard her before she saw her. Her sister was singing “Amazing Grace.”

Deborah took a deep breath and then nodded to the govboy to let her in.

The door swung open. Elena was sitting on a small cot, rocking herself back and forth.

She was holding the gold watch Deborah knew had once belonged to Michel as tightly as she could in her hands. Her pupils were dilated with whatever drug they had given her.

Her head snapped up at the sound of the door, her hand reached unconsciously to her hip for the gun they had no doubt taken from her.

“Oh, they've found you,” Elena said. “Three of you.”

Deborah noticed the watch was shaking in her hand.

“Five of you?”

150 “Dear sister, it is the drugs.”

“Yes,” Elena said deliberately. “I asked them to find you. Knew they wouldn't keep me here if.”

Elena's eyes were wide and unfocused, she trailed off and stared at her sister. Deborah, guilt-stricken, rushed forward and knelt before her, her skirts pooling out on the dirty floor. It would have been worse had Elena gotten to the Undercity. She was right to tip off the govboys.

But the price Elena had paid was unthinkable. She hugged her sister tightly even though she smelled of urine. Her body was very warm.

“I've come to take you away from here, as my only sister on God's green Earth! I found out they had taken you, and I have come to bring you home.”

“Ruth,” Elena said. “Blue eye. Rolling down and down and down. I need to find Ruth.”

Deborah turned back to the govboy. He came forward at her beckoning hand. Deborah signed the paperwork to take custody of her sister. She helped Elena to stand, but the other woman swayed slightly. The govboy caught her on the left and Deborah on the right.

“How long for the drugs to wear off?” Deborah asked the govboy as Elena's weight fell entirely on her shoulders. She would not be able to transport her sister all the way to her home.

Not like this, no not indeed.

“Hard to tell. Effects everyone differently. Might have given her too much.”

Everything became moments after that. When it was over, Deborah remembered pictures.

Elena asking for her silver cane. Elena taking a drawing of a teapot with butterflies from the wall in the hallway. A man rushing at one of the govboys in the room across from them. A woman covered in her own feces smiling and whistling an old Sunday hymn. Elena starting to sing with the woman's whistling.

151 And then they were out of that dreadful place and on to the sun-filled street, blinking their eyes in the sudden flood of God's grace from heaven.

Deborah led her sister away from the nameless facility, away from the Undercity which was soon to shut forever, away from hell. Deborah guided her sister to the Cathedral where she knew Elena would be safe.

*

In the last twenty years, Father Keegan had watched his flock diminish from hundreds to merely four dozen followers of Christ. The various Catholic parishes had eventually combined forces and moved to Westminster to preserve the cathedral and keep it from BritGov hands.

Now, the Cathedral was the last-standing church with parishioners above ground in the wreckage of the city, kept afloat in large part because Barak had turned Parli's eyes elsewhere. During the

Riots, most churches had been burnt and looted. BritGov, in the wake of the chaos, re­ appropriated the places of worship.

Except for Westminster Cathedral.

Service was still held on Wednesday nights and twice on Sunday. The candles were lit, and Father Keegan would dress himself in the bright-colored robes that signaled his office. He still took confessions on appointment. They even had a small choir and had found a Baptist woman who played the organ.

For all this, however, the church now more resembled a mediaeval castle than its previous function. The Nave hosted a robust marketplace in goods and services as well as a communal space for lodgers, the smaller chapels turned to an infirmary, a cafeteria, a

152 schoolroom, and more. The baptistery had been converted to a public bath. Families lived in the

Archbishop's house as well as the tower, which also had a twenty-four-hour watch. Even the crypt was home for two families in addition to being the last resort in event of bombs or

Armageddon. The buildings immediately adjacent to the church were now living quarters for members of the community as well. The courtyard hosted a garden and the outdoor market.

The Cathedral was not only a Catholic refuge; it also held parishioners from many other denominations, a four-person mosque, a seven-person synagogue, and even members of the cult of SAW, who held midnight orgies on the church's roof. Deborah did not fully approve of this inclusion, but in these challenging times people were safer together than apart. All-told, the

Cathedral and its adjacent buildings housed two hundred and twenty-seven lost souls. Another fifty-eight chose to live elsewhere but still frequented the services and markets. As BritGov estimated the population of above-ground London at somewhere between five and seven thousand, the Cathedral was not only the largest remaining non-BritGov residence above ground but also one of the few places in upper-London which still felt moderately like a city.

Deborah, when she arrived at the front courtyard with her barely-conscious sister, was greeted by a small crowd enjoying the remarkable weather. People were picnicking, a fire had been lit and fresh govgrub was being spit-roasted, Miss Rachel had taken her entire class of children outside—they usually met in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament—and was lecturing them in the open air, even Hester Sanderson was outside, smoking a pipe and reading her Bible.

“Deborah?”

She almost collapsed in front of the massive red-brick structure, but instead managed to lower herself and her sister to a sitting position. Her friend Sarah Jameson came to her as if summoned, and one of the students from Miss Rachel's class was sent for help.

153 Elena giggled and clapped her hands, picking a weed growing from between the grey tiles of the courtyard. “Sage,” she murmured, smelling the weed. “Make me wise, Debs, wise!”

“Deborah, where have you been?” Solomon was descending from the church steps with his grandson Sam in tow. His face looked unusually grave and he was holding his radio tight in one hand. “What's wrong with Elena? We've been trying to reach you all day! Why weren't you picking up?”

Deborah began an explanation, Elena half-distracting her as she crushed the little weed in her hand and smeared the fragrant juice over herself like perfume. She had hardly begun to set up the story of how the radio battery had died, and she had somehow taken another dead battery, yes indeed, from Barak's store before, however—

Solomon cut her off. People were always cutting Deborah off. “Let's just get Elena inside. She looks awful. And then.”

Solomon's face held the weariest expression she had ever seen.

“What in the name of God has happened now? Why are you all looking at me as if

someone has died, yes indeed as if someone has died! Elena has just been drugged, that is all, and she needs a bed and sleep. And if I didn't have my radio on, which indeed I did not, then there is—”

“Deborah, let's get Elena inside. No one is looking at you like anything,” Solomon said.

“You and I can go back to the house after we settle Ella. It.I.. was asked to wait to see if you'd turn up here or I'd already be there.”

All the adults in the courtyard were looking at her with sad eyes and shaking their heads.

Deborah tried to ask more questions, but Solomon had already turned his back to her. She huffed. Sam, a bookish fifteen-year-old who had somehow avoided the ranks of the govboys,

154 moved forward to help Deborah to her feet. Sarah was already supporting Elena. The whole courtyard had fallen bizarrely silent, but Deborah was too tired to make out what was causing such a stir. She pushed Sam away and leaned on her cane instead. Solomon looked at her and opened his mouth, but then closed it again.

“Go on in then,” said Sam, his voice quiet and mild like his grandfather's. “I'll radio

Essie and let them know.”

Solomon led them forward up the steps. They passed under Jesus in his most kingly pose, he stood in judgement in stained glass above the high door. Deborah crossed herself.

The light dimmed immediately when they entered the church, and, while there were nearly as many people in the Nave as in the courtyard and more of them were talking, a hush descended when they entered the sanctuary. Deborah had always felt the Cathedral demanded lowered voices and softer words even now when it was less than it had once been. She blessed herself again and craned her neck upward towards the endless dark stone dome high above her.

The chandeliers had been converted from electricity back to oil to help the natural sunlight even in daytime. Voices echoed through the vast space. While most of the original pews had become firewood, other furniture had made its way into the Nave, lining their passage forward across the wooden floor. As they made their way up towards the altar, Deborah noticed how everyone watched them from the sofas and armchairs that had been maneuvered into the sanctuary, and their voices fell silent.

Elena swayed, her weight resting fully on Sarah, her head lulling from side to side. She was humming a tune Deborah did not recognize but thought might be an old jingle for a television commercial that had played in their childhood. Deborah moved forward to take her sister's other shoulder.

155 “Poor thing,” Sarah murmured. “Bless. Poor Elena.”

“She will be quite alright, dear friend,” Deborah began, but she didn't have breath to speak. “Father Keegan?” Deborah managed.

“Good man,” Elena murmured, crossing herself.

“He's at the altar,” Solomon said.

“Elena, dear,” Sarah was saying softly. “Could you move your legs? There's a girl! My

Little Sarah, now, she once got bit by a snake and felt much the same as you, I suspect. But she persevered over two miles to get herself to you! Do you remember, Elena, how you helped Little

Sarah?”

When Deborah, Sarah, and Solomon arrived at the altar with Elena between them, Father

Keegan was debating the problem of evil with Rabbi Mikhailov and Imam Alim. The three men did this most days in the afternoon over a card game that no one ever seemed to win and whose rules were known only to them. Deborah had watched them at the game multiple times but had never managed to glean even the most basic of its rules. Sometimes a Jack beat a Queen but on

Mondays a Queen beat a Jack. Before noon it was good to win cards, but after midday it was best to lose them. The game itself felt extraneous to the three's philosophical discussion which also was without a clear winner or point of termination. Deborah half-expected them to continue their debate and unknowable card game into the afterlife but that their deaths must inevitably end in eternal separation.

“What happened to Elena? And why haven't you been on your radio, Deborah?” Father

Keegan tutted in his Irish lilt. He was looking at Deborah the same way Solomon was, with a strange pity and deeper worry. The priest was a short and rather stout man with wisps of hair that only emphasized his baldness. He was one of those rare breeds who looked fitter at seventy than

156 he had at forty, as if the years added rather than stripped his vitality. Deborah did not remember him as a young man and, had her mother shown her a picture of him in his seminar days, she would have refused to believe that the chubby boy with the sheepish smile would ever become the patriarch of Westminster Cathedral.

Rabbi Mikhailov, who was the tallest man Deborah had ever met and hunched as if to compensate for his height, muttered something in Russian that Deborah did not understand and gathered up the cards on the table, bowing to Imam Alim, who had already procured smelling salts from his bag and was offering them to Elena sympathetically.

“Perhaps, an orange?” Imam Alim said helpfully. “There are real oranges in the market, a little green but yet.or.. sardines?”

Elena was a favorite in the church community, her herbs and remedies as well as her nursing skills had saved many. The imam's youngest son had been delivered with Elena's help, the rabbi had come to her often for his arthritis, and the priest sought her counsel weekly. It was

Elena who had managed to convince the community to catch rain water—and purify it—before drinking thus reducing sickness by half. She had helped to plant the Cathedral's gardens on the roof and in the courtyard, and she taught others to tend it. With Michel's help, she had been instrumental in arguing to allow non-Christians residency in the community.

Deborah knew the Cathedral would care for her sister as well as she would herself.

The rabbi took over moving Elena, giving a rare glimpse of his height, the imam trailing beside him and offering Elena everything from sunflower seeds to goat's milk to suspicious blue pills, all pulled from his myriad of pockets. The priest led the party to the Lady Chapel, which was the community's hospital. Elena was gently deposited on a cot. Someone ran for Judith, who had some moderate medical training and sometimes assisted Elena.

157 Deborah stared up at the gold ceiling with its painted figures. This was her favorite place in the church. It glittered and gleamed in its ornate decadence. If the world had abandoned the superficial, at least artistry remained in the church, its first and last great patron.

“Olives?” Imam Alim said, pulling out a glass jar filled with black sliced olives. “What of olives? They might help. Yes? It is Ibrahim, dear Elena. Your friend Ibrahim will look after you, indeed.”

Deborah wondered, not for the first time, where the imam kept all of his black-market items. The rabbi hunched in the doorway, saying something about spiders in a low mumble.

Sarah, meanwhile, was arranging the pillows more comfortably for Elena's head.

The next fifteen minutes saw Elena asleep, Sarah Jameson telling most of the Nave and the Courtyard about her “poor condition,” and Deborah explaining to Father Keegan exactly what had happened—without mentioning her role in getting Elena arrested. Only then would

Solomon and Father Keegan sit her down to explain why her lack of radio contact had been ill- timed.

Deborah, when they had finished their story, nearly fainted and then retreated to the

Chapel of Holy Souls to pray and cry. She looked up in askance at the tortured faces of saints, frowning at painted demons. Her knees hurt from overuse. Brushing cobwebs from the altar, she lighted a candle, ignoring the scarcity of wax. This was too much on top of everything else.

“Are you sure,” she said when she composed herself and returned to Solomon,

“absolutely sure that Mother pushed him off the roof?”

“She was on hallelujah, Deborah,” Solomon said. “She didn't know what she was doing.

Ranting about dragons and demons. Lucky, really, that Myriam is still alive. Lucky she's still alive herself! Poor Ruth. She's never taken a drug in her life, barely drinks, and now this.”

158 “But she pushed him?”

Solomon looked at her for a long time, “Yes, yes, we think she did.”

*

Deborah had loved her dad. She remembered sitting on his knee as he explained how the moon rotated around the Earth. He would ask her about school and the nuns. Whenever she told him stories about the sisters' antics he would laugh. He loved to hear about Sister Chloe, who would chase her students around the room whenever they stole her spectacles. Or Sister Adah, who had decorated her classroom with every known butterfly in the world and cried whenever a student drew her a new one. Dad had tears in his eyes when Deborah reported that Sister

Elizabeth, the harshest of the nuns, was spied singing a rock ballad and banging her head to the beat.

Mother was harsh and unreachable, but Dad had a gentleness to him Deborah had craved as a child. She was his little pet, and she never doubted that she was his favorite over Elena or even Maria.

“Ahem, I have a theory, Deb,” he told her once. He cleared his throat, a tick that drove

Elena mad but never bothered Deborah. “The universe, ahem, it doesn't make any sense. We've been puzzling it out for years now, the existence of some dark matter that makes the equations all work. Here's what I think, ahem, I think there's some force at work that doesn't obey physical laws. A sort of energy or power. Maybe you call it God. Maybe, ahem, you call it karma. Maybe you call it chaos. Whatever it is, it, well, ahem, it binds us all together, let's the universe work. It is the thing that doesn't obey the laws or the rules. Ahem. And that lets the laws and rules exist.”

159 “The place science and religion meet?” Deborah had asked.

“Why not?”

He showed her all his equations. She didn't understand them then and wouldn't understand them now, but she liked looking at his loopy handwriting and tracing it across the page. She knew that the people at the university didn't believe Dad's ideas and sometimes mocked him for them. He told her as much when she came home with a busted knee because

Hester Sanderson had pushed her down and called her a teacher's pet.

Dad had wanted her to be a scientist, and he was appalled every time she brought home a report card with only barely passing grades. Sometimes, Deborah thought it would have been better if he had loved Elena more because she was the one with straight As and a desire to become a doctor. She would probably have been able to follow Dad's explanations about quasars and blackholes. Deborah was a disappointment to him. He had never approved of Barak, and after her marriage, she had felt increasingly distant from her father.

But his accident had left her devastated. The shock eventually ended her sixth pregnancy, taking little Evelyn from her. She had been so sure, at first, that there would be some way to restore her father's memory. Barak, however, had finally managed to convince her that the man she had known was gone forever.

“We can't restore brain synapses after they have broken,” Barak said. “We know so little about memory, Debs. We know how to take it away, but not how to give it back. We could make false memories for him, but not real ones.”

“We can destroy or lie.”

“We are all descendants of Adam,” Barak said. “And he destroyed Paradise. Only gods can truly create. We can mimic or make things less than they once were.”

160 Deborah had bowed her head to her husband's wisdom, even as her heart broke.

*

Two hours found Deborah waiting on the doorstep of her home, her hands shaking around a strong cup of coffee shot with whiskey. It was about an hour before sunset, and Barak had radioed to say he was on his way.

“Damn mad night and a damn mad day to follow it,” Essie muttered, sitting beside

Deborah with her own Irish coffee.

“Three mad nights,” Deborah said, eying the large woman and her gun.

“I've been up since last Sunday, honestly,” Essie said. “Meditating. Enjoying all the hours I can while I can.”

“Indeed, one can never properly enjoy the gift of God's glorious days, especially not as we near a crisis, Esther, for it is indeed a crisis brewing on the horizon, you have no idea! No idea what will come now, and I don't say I do either, Essie, but I think that things are in motion, indeed, and we shall all see great changes ahead,” Deborah said, the leave-strewn street in front of her dissolving into the smoky rooms and hushed voices of Parli. She wanted so desperately not to think about her father that she was willing to turn to the increasing national problems instead.

“I don't doubt it,” Essie said, bringing her back to the present. She had been talking about who knew what for a time, Essie listening, but she hardly remembered what she had been saying.

Sometimes, Deborah thought she spoke to ward off her own terror.

161 Solomon was with Myriam upstairs. She had been in shock most of the morning but

seemed mostly recovered when Deborah saw her. The thin woman had hugged her, kissed her on both cheeks, and insisted that she should not be angry at her mother. Myriam had a dark bruise across the right side of her face and her eye was swollen. Mother had, apparently, punched her hard before demanding she descend from the roof.

“She has such strength, yes?” Myriam said. “The drug makes her stronger still, I think.

Laughing and laughing. Poor Matt was so frightened. My fault, all my fault. Ruth did not want to go to the roof, no. I make her go.”

“Don't say that, darling,” Solomon said. “Don't. It was no one's fault. An accident.”

“My fault,” Myriam said. But, when Solomon asked her why, she refused to answer.

Mother had locked herself in her library and was speaking to no one except to say that she was reading, was still alive, had come down from her hallelujah high, and did not want to be interrupted. Dad's body, meanwhile, had been moved to a spare room on the first floor and

covered with a curtain. Deborah had not had the courage to look at him yet.

“Still think we should break down the door of that damn library,” Essie said. “Stop Ruth from doing who knows what.”

“Mother wouldn't do anything, indeed not! She is a godly woman, and she is simply in

shock, Essie, as anyone would be in these circum—"

“Hallelujah is a strange beast of a drug,” Essie interrupted. “Changes people sometimes.”

“Mother will be fine.”

“If you say so,” Essie said.

Deborah glared at her and sipped her coffee. After a time sitting in silence, the other woman left her to help Beatrice with preparing dinner.

162 Twenty minutes later, Deborah saw her husband when he reached the end of the street.

She rose and walked stiffly, leaning on her cane, to meet him. He carefully set his lantern down and gave her a tight hug. She leaned fiercely into him, smelling his body odor that always reminded her of wet dirt. He was wearing the same clothes he had been in nearly five days before when he had gone to Parli on urgent summons. He was very warm, very solid, and she thought, not for the first time, what a good Prime Minister he would have made!

“Why in God's name,” Barak whispered into her ear, his voice husky from sleep deprivation, “were Queen Ruth and Myriam up there in the first place?”

“I don't know,” Deborah said, holding on to her husband when she felt his arms slacken.

He maintained the hug for her. “I asked them, I did ask them, but they would not tell me, no indeed! And I didn't think it wise to...I thought perhaps..

He pulled away from her and glanced at her face, “You look awful, Debs.”

“You don't look much better, husband,” Deborah said, stroking his scraggly cheek. Barak had dark circles under his eyes, he had not shaved in at least a week, and grey was claiming more and more of his black hair. He looked ten years older than his actual age. A trait that he and she shared, she knew. It came from knowing too much and working too hard.

He patted her head, stooped to retrieve his lantern, and turned to open the front door.

“Shame about Matthew,” Barak said in a subdued tone as he led her into the house, an arm around her shoulder. He hung the lantern in the hall to illuminate their passage. “I rather liked the new version of him. Heaven knows what the machine did to him, but it was a decided improvement. Never heard him speak more than two words before it. I could never tell if he approved of me.”

“Everyone approves of you.”

163 Debs?

She was shaking and realized she was in shock. The death of her father had not registered yet. She could not process any more. Not with Elena. Not with the state of Parli. Dad would have to wait until she had space to mourn. Or perhaps she had already mourned for him, had buried him in her mind after his mind had left him. Perhaps she had to mourn Matt, the child who had inhabited his body in the last two years.

“Debs, I am so very sorry.”

“I know.”

“Dearest?”

She looked up at him, happy and surprised to hear him call her dearest even if she looked awful and even if they both had aged and even if the world was in ruin. The last few minutes it felt like the old Barak had returned to her, as if the distance that had grown between them had evaporated. She forced herself to smile. “I'm just tired, indeed, I am tired. And I can't...I don't know what to think about Dad. Or Mother. Not right now, dear God above, not right now.”

Barak nodded solemnly, cupping her face in the old way, “He was a good old boy, and I am dreadfully sorry to see him made a corpse.”

“There was so much blood.”

“He would have died before he hit the ground...the shock? He probably thought he was flying.”

They walked together towards the house, both distant.

“Elena?” Barak asked as they reached the stairs.

“At the Cathedral. She is a little woozy, yes indeed, but..”

“And Beatrice?” Barak asked.

164 “Beatrice has been very helpful. She is making dinner.”

As if summoned, Beatrice appeared in the kitchen doorway to greet them. The candles she had lit in the kitchen created a halo of soft light around her body. Deborah sometimes forgot how beautiful the young girl was. The light fell across her face in such a way that it made her delicate face doll-like. Her form was a perfect hour glass, and she was so young! The youngest girl Deborah saw above ground. A treasure to be protected in these dark times. Deborah knew what they did to young girls in the Undercity, yes, she did indeed, and Beatrice would never meet such a fate on her watch. Grief and terror were a decidedly poor looks on one so young.

She was shaking a little, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Poor dear Beatrice!

“Oh, little one,” Deborah said. “All will be well! The Lord will see to it. Dad has gone to heaven. He is up with the angels.”

Beatrice started to cry, and Barak carefully dropped Deborah's arm to embrace the young girl, letting her have the comfort of his sturdy frame.

“I made some food,” Beatrice hiccupped. don't know what.. .why was Matt on the roof like that? He was just a kid, he wasn't.. I.”

“It wasn't vour fault, Bea,” Barak said gentlv, partiallv releasing her and taking Deborah again on his other arm. He led both into the kitchen, where tea was lined up, complete even with the fake milk Barak had found on the black market that nearly tasted like the real thing. Deborah missed milk. It was the little things that got to you, she thought, the little trials that drove the faithless to pretend worlds. Perhaps her niece Ruth had thought “I just want one glass of milk.

Fried eggs. A hot shower with scented shampoo.” Perhaps she had thought she'd just do it once, just to have the things taken from her back again. Deborah had thought as much from time to

165 time, how easy it would be to plug in, just once, for an hour, for a small glimpse of the comforts

forgotten.

“Of course, it wasn't your fault,” Deborah was saying to Beatrice. She gave the girl a hug

before they sat down. She held Beatrice's hand tightly in her own, marveling at the small fingers,

at the smooth skin. “Dad adored you! And you were so very good with him, Beatrice. Such a

blessing for him. We can't know what happened or why or .”

“There was something wrong with him during dinner,” Beatrice said. “And I

knew it! He's been off for days. I knew something was wrong.”

“He probably thought it would be easier to get to space from up there,” Barak said. “Or

he followed Ruth and Mimi. Or maybe he's been going up there for months at midnight and we just didn't know, and this was the time that.We.. just will never know. Mind wipes don't make

any sense, Bea. Matt wasn't...he just wasn't. And Ruth, well.”

They heard footsteps, and Essie stood framed in the doorway. She was wearing a tank top

and blue pajama bottoms with a shooting star print, —Deborah wondered where she had gotten

them—and she was carrying three black notebooks in one hand while her shotgun casually hung

from her left shoulder. In the doorway, Essie was immense. She was taller than even Barak and

broader as well. Her bare arms were muscled, setting off the tattoos climbing from her shoulders

to her elbows and the lone black ship on her forearm. Deborah shuddered but said nothing. That

Essie had been part of the Sisterhood was something she and Barak had known when they took

her in. Deborah had not asked Barak or Essie any questions about the lodger's past.

“I just tried Ruth again. Got her to open the door anyway. Had to threaten to break it

down, mind. She looks awful. I can't get anything out of her except something about Michel's

ghost,” Essie said, crossing her arms and hugging her chest. “Mimi saw a woman on the roof.

166 apparently? But Ruth says they had to break the lock on the fire escape to get up, so she couldn't have got up that way. It doesn't make any sense. This woman with golden eyes.”

“You're sure the person they saw isn't still there? Or in the house?” Barak asked, sipping his tea thoughtfully. Deborah imagined he was at a cabinet meeting and Essie was his secretary of state. They were dissecting an alarming invasion of the country together.

“Positive. We even searched Ruth's closet through the hole in the ceiling. Unless the woman is hiding in a pile of books somewhere—"

“Which, given the state of the fifth floor could be very likely indeed,” Deborah muttered.

“—then she isn't here.”

“Were they all high?” Barak asked. “Got high before going to the roof?”

Essie shrugged, “I would believe that of Mimi, not of Ruth.”

“She could have been slipped something. I wouldn't put it past Myriam to try to loosen

Ruth up. Easy to slip some mood into a cup of tea.or.. even hallelujah.”

“Mimi's eyes weren't golden,” Beatrice said. “I checked when she came in. And hallelujah is injected. You don't drink it, Barak.”

“A small dose might not have made Mimi's eyes glow, but it could cause hallucinations.

Maybe from a patch?” Barak said, smiling at her and patting her small hand.

“She would have been acting different, Barak,” Beatrice countered. “I've seen hallelujah, and Mimi was too...too human for that. People start to act like Ruth was acting...possessed, as if they are. Ruth was laughing like a loon over Matt's body. That's how people on hallelujah act.”

Deborah shuddered, picturing the scene. Seeing her mother laughing over the corpse of her father in the misty night, the moonlight making her features harsher. Cruel.

167 “It's a fine explanation, drugs, but it doesn't account for everything anyway,” Essie said.

“Not what I found.” She took the second notebook from her pile and laid it on the table. “Found this one under his cot. I don't think he wanted anyone to see it.”

On the cover, Dad had taped a sticky note that said SECRET, DO NOT OPEN in a child's scribble.

Essie opened the black notebook. Page after page was filled with the same drawing done over and over again, growing somehow clearer with each picture, as if Dad's talent had been advancing with every attempt. In crayon, in marker, in colored pencil. The same image.

“Shut it!” Deborah said, crossing herself.

Every page contained the likeness of a bald woman in a black cloak with glowing golden eyes smiling a ghastly grin.

*

“Deborah?” Beatrice had come into her room, her eyes taking in the coat Deborah was buttoning up around herself for the outdoors, the mittens that covered her hands, and the long blue scarf she wrapped around her neck. The dog Lyra was trotting at Beatrice's feet and sat at a command from the girl. “You aren't going out? It's past sunset!”

“I need to walk,” she said. “Yes, indeed, I need to walk. The danger is not great anymore,

Beatrice, for everyone is underground but the govboys, and they will leave me be I think as I am no longer worth their time, no indeed. I need to be outside, away from this place, this wicked place and these feelings, they just burst out of me like anything, dear Beatrice, and I need to get away from here.”

168 “Maybe Barak can go with you so—”

“No, no, no indeed! Barak wouldn't approve nor should he approve because walking out at night is foolish, very, very foolish!”

Beatrice had taken her arm. Deborah realized it was shaking. Their eyes met. The girl had such beautiful eyes. She was the most beautiful child Deborah could have ever imagined. She rose her hand and stroked the girl's face, a careful caress, maternal and gentle. Beatrice looked down and dropped Deborah's hand.

“I'll walk with you,” Beatrice said finally.

It was a strange walk through the night. The moon was so bright that their passage was easy, the hidden things revealed in the silvery glow. Deborah wandered through the nighttime streets hardly knowing where she went or why. Her radio was silent in her hand. Beatrice trailed her like a shadow, asking no questions but providing a reassuring presence. Deborah held the young girl's hand tightly in her own, but she didn't complain about the pressure. Lyra trotted beside them, nose turned up to the night.

Her footsteps took her towards St James, and she watched the moonlight glitter on the water, the way the trees transformed to gentle silver-grey, their leaves delicate and pale. She wandered towards her morning graveyard.

“I have never taken you here, no indeed, Beatrice,” she said, breaking the long silence.

“I've been to the park, Deb, I—”

“No,” Deborah said. “You haven't been here, the most important place on God's green earth.”

Beatrice let Deborah pull her forward, keeping her words and thoughts to herself as they approached the lakeshore.

169 Deborah remembered that night after her seventh miscarriage, in her room at home, on

her knees and begging. Telling Barak about the times she had kept from him. The pregnancies he had not known about before. She had taken him in the dark out to this place where she buried

them, the children that had not been allowed to live. She told him all of their names: Maria,

Sarah, Leah, Rachel, Gabriella, and Evelyn. He helped her bury Noel.

She had made little markers for them. It was beautiful here, this place where once she and

Elena had fed the ducks. The moonlight infused her sacred place with a simple grandeur, a

reassurance of fragility. Here, she said to Barak, here are their graves which look over the lake.

See the maple tree who guards them: Maria, Sarah, Leah, Rachel, Gabriella, Evelyn, Noel. She

told him their names until he knew them as well as she did. She told him about what she thought

each would have been like. Maria, devout and timid, thin and always kind, like her aunt

namesake; she would have been best friends with Elena's Ruth and kept her from wickedness.

Sarah would have been her rambunctious tomboy, the one for whom she would make excuses

time and time again, but deep down she would be a momma's girl and bring her kisses each

night and a loving smile. She knew all of them, the buried ones, and she told him one after

another the stories that ran in her head whenever she visited their graves.

Barak had come around in the end, in the graveyard of her dreams. She had cried and he

had held her as he had not done before. Crying was not something people like Deborah and

Barak did. Barak was an important man, a powerful man, one of the shapers of worlds. She was

his wife, the woman who hosted for the important people and kept Barak a good home, the

woman who held Barak together, one of the supporters of great men. Deborah and Barak had

laughed together and danced together and faced the bad times side by side but crying made faces

red and unattractive. They did not cry together.

170 Barak had argued with her plan at first. He had protested. He could not see her desire for what it was. When Barak finally agreed to sleep with another woman in this graveyard under the maple tree, Deborah realized for the very first time that her husband loved her. She was not only his ornamental bird. She was precious to him. It was the first time she had known it in her bones.

He had called her dearest then.

“Deb,” Beatrice said softly, “I'm pregnant.”

It took a long time for the words to register, but when they did Deborah fell to the ground next to her unborn children and embraced Beatrice's waist, her hands closing protectively and possessively around the living child resting in her womb as if she would never let go.

171 Countdown: 2 Days

Orpah 'n Jez sprawl 'cross three sleepin' pads in their shared tent, sweaty 'n covered in lube both nat'ral 'n art. Orpah's pretty sure they're in meat-world, pretty sure they haven't been in virt. They're still waitin' on ARCs. She's eighty percent sure. Her palm reads 2 in yellow.

Wouldn't keep that in virt. 'N you don't go askin' for tents in virt neither.

But damn was that sex good! Best you've ever heard tell of!

Jez's folks went to ARC near a month before, so she 'n Jez now have the tent all to themselves. It's big as tents go, 'n Jez brings her incense here, so now it smells like ambergris for true dreams 'n for bringin' on desire.

Orpah strokes the strap-on prick they decided to try on out. They'd gotten it from the

Theatres last night. Watched a man wi' cat features have sex wi' a young woman holoin' as a little gal, novel to see gals so young. Bit of drama 'bout her bein' a secret BritGov experiment 'n only fertile gal left. That got some intrigue a-goin' from the audience. Orpah thinks Theatre actin' isn't good precise, so she doesn't feel it much. Jez likes it fine though, 'n they laugh at it when it goes wild. They're more than careful there; holo older so no one looks at them too much.

They got a battery-run lantern lit up in soft reds 'n purples to better see each other. The red light makes the toy penis look real, though it's bigger than those Orpah sees at the Theatres or in the Red Tents. It's not as large as you can get in virt, 'course, but in meat-world it'd taken them a good long week for each to be able to take it inside. The tip's cut nice, circumcised, a fadin' trend out o' virt. There'd been some mad theories that tip-cuttin' was the reason girls were not bein' born. Orpah remembered all the hubaloo from her childhood. Papa said it was ridic: “Grasping for straws.”

172 The fake prick feels warm in Orpah's hand, as if blood is a-pumpin' through it, and it's preparin' to ejaculate. She wonders what it'd be like to have to deal wi' a floppv thing ‘tween her legs all the time, havin' to pee holdin' it, hidin' it when she wants someone. She thinks she should try on a male body in virt sometime just for the giggles.

“Orp?” Jez mutters, still recoverin' from the best o' orgasms.

“Yeah, babe,” Orpah savs, reachin' to stroke her fire-hair.

“When we ditch the meat, I wanna do that on a camel.”

“Hm. Sounds difficult.”

“You think?” Jez vawns, her nose scrunchin' up so adorable. “It can be a double-humped camel. You get one hump,” Jez vawns again. “'N I get the other.”

“I think the humps might get in the wav, Jez-bel.”

Jez screws up her face in her cutest way, the way she does whenever she's trvin' to picture something. “Yeah.that might be a problem.”

Orpah tickles her behind her knees in her weak spot, 'n Jez giggles 'n scoots awav. “I think I remember three past lives.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Amber helps. Best incense for it. I wanna do it again at full moon...wi' jasmine.”

“We'll be in virt, Jez-bel.”

“Hmm, veah, guess the moon doesn't matter anvmore, huh? Makes me sad sometimes.”

“We can just make sure our part o' virt keeps cvcles. We need to come up wi' a name for our part o' virt, vou know. But it'll keep cvcles for vour rituals, right?”

“Not the same,” Jez savs, vawnin' big. “But gotta give up some things to ditch the meat.”

“Precise.”

173 Orpah curls up close to Jez's back so they're spoonin', buryin' her head in those orange curls again. “Hmm. You smell nice.”

“The lube's scented. Lemon-orange.”

“Nah, you just smell nice.”

“Hmm.okay. You don't think the thing in America will slow down the ARCs? The thing on the radio?”

“Why're you listenin' to radio? Who cares 'bout,” Orpah yawns, “'merica?”

They keep a-layin' together, Orpah havin' a sudden longin' for her old bed far above the ground. Sharp 'n hard longin'. Her hand reaches round to stroke Jez's neck right there in that good spot along the pulse point. She's a-tuggin' at the agnate necklace Jez wears as a charm

'gainst evil spirits.

“You're sure we should go on in Sunday?” Jez asks soft.

“You're not?”

Jez sighs, “Not that.. I know it's for the best, right? Know it's how we evolve 'n all. All the stuff the BritGov props say all the time. Just...how're you so sure?”

“Jez, we'll be together. In virt. Makin' our own way. That's all I want.”

“Yeah. Yeah, 'course you're right. Ahab got to me, right?”

“He'll come round,” Orpah says. “Just needs to get the reb out of his system.”

She rolls over towards her gal, kickin' the side o' the tent so that it rustles. She wraps her arms tight round Jez, her Jez, 'n both stare at each other like there's nothing 'n nothing else.

“Hello,” Orpah whispers.

“'Lo,” Jez says. Her sad face turns up just like that 'n she's smilin' bright again.

174 The two are quiet for a good long while, lookin' at each other deep as you can. Orpah loves Jez's eyes. Green as grass to match the fire-hair. Not many nat gingers left in the world.

Orpah suspects green eyes are a-dyin' out too. Jez's unique. Special. In the nat, Orpah had borin' mud-colored hair and borin' grey eyes. Now her hair's art-red to Jez's nat-orange, 'n her eyes art-silver to Jez's nat-green. She's gone 'n bleached her skin so that she's white like chalk, 'n paints her face like a skeleton. Every day like Day o' the Dead. Even without a holo, Orpah's shockin' 'n unique too. It'll be better though in virt. She won't need glamor or holos. She just will go on 'n change however she wants.

“What're you starin' at me so hard for?” Jez asks.

“Countin' your freckles,” Orpah says, kissin' Jez's nose.

“Might take a while, that,” Jez says. She leans forward 'n rests her forehead 'gainst

Orpah's. They listen hard to each other breathe.

“I'll miss this,” Jez says sudden. “How dirty it's out here. That we're all sticky. That I feel so tired. Is that weird?”

“Yeah.”

“In virt, right, sex is near always perfect. But this was special 'cuz it isn't always perfect in meat-world, you know.”

“You can just ask virt to make it all real if you want it like that.”

“It's not the same,” Jez says. “It's like, so, this is a secret, right? No judgin'?”

“'Course not.”

“I miss London. I miss the rain. The damp. The green. My parents. Even Ahab, the idiot.

I miss how it was back 'n back. Know you can't get it back. Know everything moves right on forward. 'N I think it's gettin' better too, movin' forward. But now 'n then, when I'm off in virt

175 learnin' about witchy stuff, it's like, those things aren't remembered anymore. They're all gone.

'N I go off wonderin' what else'll be gone soon. Who's gonna remember Naraka? Once everyone's in virt 'n all.”

“Who wants to remember Naraka? Jezebel, are you a-cryin'?”

“It's not that I don't wanna go plug on in. I'm not rebbin' out on you, Orpah. Not even a little. I wanna go to virt. I mean, it's endin' cyclical rebirth, it's freakin' nirvana. The end of death. We've gone 'n won that battle! 'N I get excited at midnight every night when the chip counts on down too, just like you. It isn't that.”

“Then what's up?”

“It's just, everybody's celebratin' 'n no one's stoppin' 'n thinkin' on what's endin'. No one's stoppin' 'n thinkin' on what's gonna die wi' meat-world. I know things evolve, go right on forward. ARCs make sense. Not arguin'. But I feel bad that I feel sad. Does that even make sense?”

“Maybe?” Orpah says. She doesn't understand Jez's point, you see. Not precise. Wants to. Tryin' pretty hard. But there's nothing 'n nothing Orpah wants from meat-world. She's nothing but excited for virt.

“You think we'll ever get back?” Jez asks. “Some day? To this?”

Jez moves her head enough so that the two of them can look at each other. Orpah shrugs.

“Not sure what you mean by ‘this.'”

Jez closes her eyes, “Me neither.”

Orpah watches her gal. Strokes her head, watchin' the other drift to sleep. She feels a slight burnin' on her palm. The yellow 2 has gone and turned to a bright orange 1. She watches

Jez and tries to sleep.

176 Beatrice

The dreams started the first night she slept at Deborah and Barak's home. She had never had reoccurring dreams before and had certainly never had dreams like this.

The dream:

Bea wakes up in her bed, breathing in the smell of chocolate. Her blankets are heavy on top of her like a cocoon. The fireplace has turned to warm coals, but she feels warm and safe as if she has just taken a hot bath. Then, her room fills with a soft reddish light entering through the panes of her closed window. The red gleam bathes her hair and the soft white sheets.

She hears tapping at the window. Always three taps, a pause, and three more taps.

She gently slips from bed, shivering outside her covers, and walks to the window. Her feet are bare on the cold wood floor. She wears a long red tee-shirt that stops at her knees. In front of her, she can see her breath coming out in small white puffs. Her arms cross around her small breasts, her nipples pebbling from the cold.

She reaches the window and stands close enough to the glass that her breath fogs it.

Scanning the darkness beyond, she sees nothing but the streetlamps far below. The strange red light comes from the moon, which hangs huge in the sky and has turned the color of blood. For a long time, she stares at the red orb, its beauty enchanting her.

The tapping starts again. It startles her. Three taps, a pause, and three more taps.

And Bea knows, in some murky part of her brain, that she shouldn't open the window. A voice in her head that sounds very much like Aunt Tamar tells her it is wrong to open the window. It is not proper to open the window. She thinks about skin-walkers. She knows exactly what will happen when she opens the window.

177 The smell of chocolate grows stronger, and she sighs. The moon seems even larger than before. The tapping stops, and she hears a voice. It sounds like a thunderstorm across the desert or the sound of coyotes singing in spring. At first, she thinks the voice sounds like all voices, but then it becomes one, deep, not so different from Barak's but smoother and softer. The voice says,

“Please, Bea, please let me in.”

Her hand slides to the window, unlocking it, and then hesitating.

“Please.”

Both hands come to the window, her skin red in the moonlight, and she lifts the glass up and up until it stands as high as it will go. The red light grows stronger.

“Come in,” Bea says. “Please come in.”

And then there is a man in her room standing beside her.

She always thinks of him as Coyote, the Trickster from the stories she heard as a child.

The red light bathes his naked form, coloring his arms with their swirling black tattoos, tracing the smattering of hair that runs from his belly button down and down. He wants her, she can see, and she blushes with the knowledge before raising her head to meet his eyes. They are red like the moonlight and they reflect her back to herself.

When he reaches for her, she anticipates him and steps into his arms. It's a dangerous move; Coyote can be a hero, but he is also devious. At some point, her long red tee disappears.

Bea always woke up after they had made love. She would turn, expecting to see him, but there was only an empty space beside her. Her dog Lyra would whine at her from the spot she occupied at the foot of the bed, awake and with her lone green eye wide in the dark. The room never held the mysterious red light of the dream. But Bea was sweaty, her underwear soaked through, and a wet patch stained the sheets between her legs. She felt as if her body had been

178 brought to the most delicious pleasure again and again. The oddest part of it all was that the window she carefully shut and locked night after night was open wide, and she still could smell chocolate on her skin.

*

When they had arrived at the Cathedral, Deborah tucked her in with a quilt made from old dresses, her eyes misty with delight, placing a careful kiss to her belly. She had not told

Barak yet, but Bea knew she would tomorrow. Everyone would know about the baby tomorrow.

Barak had been furious when they got back to the house, though he'd held his temper in.

Deborah was too happy about the baby to notice the way he shook, the horror in his eyes at the thought of both of them alone in the night. He and Essie had already packed up all the necessities for a night at the church by then. They had not noticed the two women were gone until they came home. Solomon and Myriam had been with Ruth nearly an hour persuading her to leave the house, at least temporarily. So, they'd gotten back from a walk through the darkness only to set out on another one, Ruth stiff and angry the entire way.

It was probably nearly midnight now, but Bea was not sure how long she had been lying awake. Elena and Deborah were both snoring, the latter sometimes talking in her sleep. Mimi talked from time to time as well, and she tossed and turned, rustling the blankets. Barak and Ruth both slept still and silent as the grave. Beyond the Lady Chapel, others slept in the Nave and the sanctuary—those who, like them, had not yet been assigned a more permanent home. Essie had gone to the tower for the night watch, claiming she didn't sleep much. Bea supposed she

179 wouldn't stay with them anymore now that they had abandoned the house. She'd taken Lyra with her after Ruth had thrown a fit about the dog sleeping in the chapel with Bea.

Maybe it was Lyra's absence that made it so hard for Bea to sleep. She tossed and turned, her eyes trying to map out the ceiling high above her, her ears trying to trace the unfamiliar noises to their sources. She closed her eyes and thought of the desert, of her aunties, her childhood friends. She began to drift.

She woke from her daze with a start and sighed. Moonlight glinted down through the circular window above her, reflecting the muntin's diamond pattern on the floor. She looked up at the high arch to her right, green marble climbing the pillar and blue diamonds decorating the underside of the arch. The patterns reminded Bea vaguely of Dine artwork. The ceiling directly above her was bare stone, and she could imagine she was in a cave or a castle but for the eLabourate windows. She thought she heard whispering through the vast building, a quiet murmur as if she were sleeping outdoors. She shivered and drew her quilt closer to her. The vastness of the church was unnerving.

Her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, making out more and more of the shape of the Lady Chapel. Elena was lying in a bed about four feet in front of her, and Mimi was beside her on a sleeping pad. To her right, Deborah and Barak each had cots pulled close together.

She yawned, rolling and creaking her neck. She heard what sounded like the clearing of a throat, and her heart skipped a beat.

Ruth was standing over her in her long fleece nightgown. She was just out of the reach of the moonlight, her face in shadow. Her breath sounded uneven, Laboured.

“Ruth?” Bea whispered, her breath catching on the name.

“Are you still drinking your tea, Beatrice?”

180 "I--"

“I think vou haven't been drinking it, Beatrice,” Ruth said. Her voice was harsh, as if she had had a sore throat, but the tone was very calm.

“I, well, what with evervthing, I.forgot.”

Ruth stepped forward into the moonlight. Her face was strained and severe, the circles under her eyes deep and dark, the wrinkles like black ink in the pale light. She looked as if she had aged ten vears since Matt's death. Yet her make-up was impeccable, her hair neat and tidy, her appearance austere. She was disquietingly in control.

Bea had never liked Ruth, but, for the first time, she was afraid of her.

“You need to drink vour tea, Beatrice.”

The older woman held out a mug. Bea could smell the aroma of the herbs, almost taste the bitter draught. She shifted and sat up, the cold air of the cathedral infiltrating her warm nest.

She took the cup from Ruth, their hands meeting for the most passing touch. Ruth's skin was ice­ cold. The other woman withdrew her hand from Bea as if she had been burned, and then crossed herself.

Bea watched, feeling a pressing weight against her chest. A shiver shook her body.

“Drink vour tea, Beatrice.”

“I will,” she said slowlv, her heart pounding. “I'll sip it and make sure I take it all. You can go back to bed, Ruth.”

“Little girls sometimes onlv pretend to take their medicine,” Ruth said. She stood unmoving, her arms crossed in front of her chest, waiting.

Bea brought the cup to her lips, her eves locked with Ruth's, and she slowlv drank the foul mixture, almost choking, her eyes watering at the taste.

181 “Very good,” Ruth said. She reached out a clawed hand and took the cup from her. Bea noticed she was careful to avoid touching her bare skin. “Now that you are living on the charity of the church, perhaps you would consider showing your respect?”

Ruth held out a chain of prayer beads complete with a small crucifix. The black necklace glittered in the moonlight like diamonds. Bea reached up and took the beads. They were cold against her palm. With Ruth still watching her, she carefully took the necklace and slipped it over her head. It was heavier than Bea would have thought, like a weight pulling her downwards.

“Good night, Beatrice,” Ruth said. “I will listen for a time. We don't want you to accidentally spit up your medicine.”

The old woman finally walked away from her and back to bed.

Bea lay on the matt wide awake, her heart quivering at every sound in the night, her eyes trying to make out shapes in the darkness. She tried to close her eyes, but fear forced them open again and again. Her mouth was full of the thick bitter herbs, and she felt herself heave, but tried to keep the mixture down. Cramps started in her stomach, but she didn't dare rise to go to the chamber pots. She rode the pain and the nausea, her nails digging into her palms. She tried to lay perfectly still, tried to make no noise at all. Tears of exhaustion and fright rose to her eyes.

The night sluggishly winded its way towards morning, the dark endless, and the whispering silence of the Cathedral without remorse.

*

“Beatrice? Beatrice?”

182 She woke to bright sunshine coming from the circular window. Deborah was kneeling next to her, holding a plate of what looked like fresh apples. She could smell the fruit sweet in the air. The sounds of the Nave were a dull murmur.

“It's nearly noon, indeed, nearly noon. I was very worried, child, quite worried!” Her voice was a whisper. The church always sucked out the liveliness of the people who came here.

Bea preferred the open air of ceremonies to this suffocating space.

“The girl's had a long couple of days,” said Elena, who was sitting on her cot munching on a small green apple. “She clearly needed the sleep.”

Bea yawned, stretching, and glanced around the Chapel. Ruth wasn't there. Neither were

Mimi or Barak. She relaxed. Bea glanced at Deborah's worried face silently asking whether

Elena was to be let in on the secret of her pregnancy yet, but Deborah shook her head quickly.

The gold ceiling of the Lady Chapel glittered to her right, its mosaics visible now. The

Virgin Mary was on her knees, holding the broken body of Jesus. Her blue-clad form danced across the walls, riding donkeys, talking with angels and priests, holding a baby. Bea didn't recognize all the pictures; her Biblical knowledge was limited. Her eyes were drawn up to the angels above the scenes depicting Mary's life. Painted thin with green and red strokes, their wings reminded her of dragons.

“Dear, dear Beatrice, won't you have an apple? They are quite good for you, still growing as you are. Myriam brought them all the way from World's End, from the orchard there, yes, indeed, and, and they are a little small, but yet, God's bounty cannot be ignored, not in these most trying times!”

183 Bea took an apple from Deborah, biting into it. She realized she was quite hungry. It was sour and had a slightly wormy taste, but she ate it down to its core before eagerly accepting some of the govgrub sausages offered to her.

“I sort of want mutton,” Bea said between bites. “I mean, I know there isn't any mutton.

But I could really go for a Navajo taco right now. Fry bread—thick like Aunt Dinah makes it— some lettuce straight from the garden, onions, tomatoes, and then just lay the mutton right on top, straight from the roast.”

“Don't make us hungry, Bea,” Elena said quietly. “Govgrub is something, at least.”

“Hmmm, but nothing is good as it was,” Bea said. She remembered going into virt just to taste mutton, but even below, even in the virts that supposedly mimicked her memories, it never tasted quite right to her.

“Beatrice, do you...do you want more?” Deborah was looking at her a little aghast. She realized she had just gobbled down the entire plate of sausages, at least seven or eight. She was still hungry.

“If there are more?” Bea said timidly.

“Of course, dear, I will just go and get them, yes indeed, go and get them!” And Deborah hurried out at a swift walk.

“She seems happy,” Elena said. The other woman looked about as far from happy as anyone could get. Her face was pale, and it was as if she were in recovery from a very bad bout of flu. Her wrinkles were deeper, her hair turning white. Despite this though, there was a fire in

Elena that Bea had never seen before. The other woman looked more present, as if all the time that Bea had known her she had been drifting aimlessly through the desert, but now had finally found a path to follow.

184 “What happened to you?” Bea asked.

Elena laughed but it was bitter, hollow, “I had an adventure.”

The other woman didn't eLabourate, and Bea didn't ask. Elena had been sleeping when they arrived here. Deborah had checked on her carefully, and Myriam had refused to do anything but sleep right beside her, “in case she wants anything in the night, poor dear Elena!” Clearly the adults knew what was going on, but no one was likely to tell Bea.

“Did you sleep well?” Elena asked.

“Sure,” Bea lied.

“I had a dream about my sister Maria last night,” Elena said. “She, Deb, and I were playing a card game. She kept winning over and over again. Then Dad came in and took

Deborah away, and I kept telling him he should take Maria instead. It was a weird dream.”

“Huh,” Bea said, watching the other woman staring at her hands. “I mean, I.maybe.. you just miss Matt? Yeah? I.I.. really do.”

It was true. Bea still felt in a state of shock at Matt's death. She had enjoyed his antics, his drawings, his stories about distant planets. She had never had a kid brother, but she imagined that how she and Matt interacted was a lot like that. She had always felt sorry for born-agains.

She knew a woman-girl named Zip down in Annwn who had sort of attached herself to Bea's tent. Born-agains were the closest thing to children there were any more really. She couldn't deal with Matt falling from that roof, couldn't process how scared he must have been.

“I didn't really have a relationship with my father,” Elena said, breaking through Bea's thoughts.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to—”

“It's fine. Not happy he's dead or anything. Just not sad.”

185 “Right,” Bea said softly. Since she had joined Deborah's household, she often felt like this; half-in and half-out of the family. Elena's blood tie to the man Matt trumped her own grief over the boy he had become. It wasn't that Elena was trying to be cruel, but it felt like a rebuke.

A reminder that she didn't really understand, couldn't ever understand, was an outsider who stood apart. She wondered if the baby would change all that or make it worse.

“Deborah tells me I need to just accept things as they are, you know. Spent half the morning trying to calm me down. As if I'm overreacting to some stupid thing. Also keep telling me to make things up with Mother, which, you know is not going to bloody happen.

Overreacting, with everything that happened, with my daughter.. .the Undercity about to close'...overreacting,” Elena sighed. “Sorry, this has nothing to do with you.”

“It's okay,” Bea said. Outside in the Nave, she heard laughter. Miss Rachel's class was running past the chapel. They were all boys her own age or slightly younger, but Bea felt no kinship to them. One, a tall boy about fourteen who looked Palestinian, stopped for a moment and grinned at her. It was Ibrahim's youngest son, she knew. He had a crush on her, she knew.

She nodded to him dismissively.

“Jo's dead, by the way,” Elena said as the boy moved off.

“What?!”

“Joanna. She hung herself. They found her at World's End yesterday. Guess Father

Keegan had been trying to reach her on radio and got worried when she didn't pick up. She used an old extension cord, one of those big long plugs. Looped it around and around a pole on the roof near the garden, and she went and let herself fall off the side of the building. She was hanging three stories from the top. No idea how long she's been dead.”

186 Joanna had given Bea massages meant to help with her fertility. She'd always been kind to her, asking to do up her hair and face, saying that she was crazy beautiful. Bea didn't much believe that, but she never felt more gorgeous than she did after leaving Joanna's apartment. For all that, she hadn't heard the other woman say much in all of her weekly visits. There was always a deep gloom about World's End. Both Joanna and Elena's isolation felt intentional, a means of shutting out the world beyond their grief.

“I'm.. .really sad to hear that,” Bea said. “I liked her.”

“Me too,” Elena said. Bea saw that her eyes, so often misted over during their weekly appointments and check-ups, were hard, focused. “She lost herself...gave up.”

“Losing her kids to the Migrations. it must have been—”

“No, you can’t give up,” Elena said. “This is a test. All of it. And despair doesn’t change anything. Despair destroys, that’s it. You can’t be like Jo.”

The other woman wasn’t looking at her. She had finished her apple and was contemplating the core, turning it over and over in her hands.

“Right,” Bea said. Elena’s attention snapped back to her. Her eyes sharp.

“You know where Essie is going this afternoon, Bea?”

“I.no?”

Elena looked at her very carefully but seemed satisfied she wasn’t lying. She looked back to her hands, “Overheard her on the radio this morning. Mentioned your name, and I thought...never mind. Forget it.”

She’d never seen Elena like this and wasn’t sure how to deal with her strange anger, for it was anger. That fire she could see was a coil of rage. She had never really seen Elena as Ruth’s daughter before, but something about this drive reminded her of the older woman, and she

187 shuddered. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Elena about the tea, something she probably should have already done, when Deborah returned with more govgrub, this spit-roasted, “just like that mutton you were asking for, yes indeed! I asked Sarah Jameson about it and she recommended some of the roast from yesterday. Done on a spit and everything. Perfect for you,

Beatrice. Sarah says, she does indeed, that you can't tell it isn't meat, not at all like this. ”

Bea watched Elena emerge from wherever she had been, staring at her sister. The other woman accepted some of the govgrub before the plate passed to Bea. It smelled delicious, and she dug in with her fingers, the grease coating her hands. She tried to forget about Matt, about

Elena, about Joanna, and just enjoy the juicy meat.

*

An hour later, Bea threw up violently in the Chapel of Holy Souls into a bucket of soap and water. The vomit was the same color as the dreadful tea, but there were bits of govgrub in it too. It smelled like the tea. Her mouth tasted the bitter herbs.

She'd have to get a new bucket now, of course. The smell of sick pervaded the chapel, and she tried to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose. She would have to bring the bucket outside to the sewer drain.

She heaved again, holding her hair out of the way.

When she had vomited pretty much everything she'd eaten that morning and every trace of the yellow-brown tea, she dry heaved several times. She wanted Auntie Becca, who gave the best hugs and told the best stories. Her head ached. She glanced from right to left, but no one else was in this Chapel. Above her, a mosaic showed a snake wrapped tight around a screaming man.

188 She looked down.

Miss Rachel had invited Bea to join up with the class, but she had refused. Instead, she'd brought a pail to clean up some of the dirt from the altar here. Everyone was supposed to do a little cleaning each day at the Cathedral, and Bea intended to do her share. She enjoyed the work, enjoyed finishing a task and seeing the results. When she had lived with her aunts, she'd always volunteered for dish duty. One of the hardest parts about Annwn for her was the constant and ceaseless filth. Cleaning gave her time to think.

She was trying to decide what to do about Ruth.

She'd lost her nerve before talking to Elena or Deborah about their mother. The fact that neither was reminding her about any herbal remedies suggested that whatever Ruth had given her to drink was her own initiative. She knew it was probably harmless, knew her paranoia over it was irrational, but she couldn't shake the sinister scene of the night before.

Ruth reminded Bea of her Aunt Tamar. They both had a habit of treating the rest of the world like servants, they both thought everything they did was right no matter what, and they both hated change. Unlike Aunt Tamar, however, Bea suspected Ruth would last less than twenty minutes in the American Southwest. When the old crone gave her a bad time, she liked to picture Ruth, her skirts blown up by the spring winds and her underwear on display, screaming bloody murder over a lizard or a coyote, unable to cope with the sheer grit that had been Bea's world before London.

Damn, Bea missed that desert.

The vastness of it mostly. In London buildings and trees blocked the horizon every which way, but in the desert the land went forever until you could see the place where the earth turned,

189 and you knew, just knew, there was too much in this world to ever understand even the smallest

part of it.

Things were so rigid here in London, every part kept in its little box and kept in its place.

The desert did not allow for that; it was one entity and everything—from the rocks high as

skyscrapers to deep canyons like scars—absolutely everything was part of the whole. Bea missed driving with her friends in the back of pick-ups for hours upon hours into nothingness, watching

the mist rise among monument rocks or contemplating how the setting sun brought out the flat

sands' grating. She missed the colors: reds and browns and greys, and always the burnt orange

sand meeting the azure skies. London had sunk into greenery now turned golden, and only in the

cold winters when the snow made the world whole did Bea feel a sense of peace from the vibrant

growth and its accompanying visual mayhem. The pieces of the landscape were all so much here

and yet amounted to so little.

Bea's stomach turned over again, and she dry-heaved into the bucket.

The Cathedral made her paranoid. She had the oddest sensation that she was being

watched. She turned around to look behind her again, but there was no one in the chapel.

She looked carefully to the far right. No red dot. She had insisted that whenever she was

in virt that there be a faint blinking red dot just at the corner of her vision. Not enough to

interfere with her experience, but enough that she could check if she needed to do so.

She knew, of course, that if you really wanted to, you could ignore even programmed tells.

She could convince herself that she was imagining that little red blinking light at the corner of her

vision. Which she was. That was the other problem. You did start imagining things.

Nonsense.

190 Bea shook her head to clear it. She was on edge because of the mess she was in. Because of the baby growing inside her. That was all.

“Beatrice.”

If you speak of the devil ..

It was Barak. He stood at the place where the Chapel of Holy Souls met the Nave, his wiry frame silhouetted in the light. Barak's skin was the same color as Auntie Becca's, the color of the dirt she used to eat in spring. He had a scraggly beard that Deborah hated but Bea thought was a little sexy. His face was very thin. Her favorite part about him was his voice. It had a deep and commanding quality that she found very reassuring. He would make a good father. She liked how he said her name.

“Deborah told me,” he said. He stepped forward. If Bea didn't know better, she would have thought he was nervous. His eyes trailed down her body to her belly, staring at it as if it would attack him. He took in the bucket of water and the smell of vomit.

“Are you...are you alright? Is it just, morning sickness?”

“Yeah,” Bea said.

He was so much older than her. She forgot sometimes.

She'd never seen him naked. When they had sex, it was always in the dark with only one candle burning. He kept his clothes on. When their arrangement first started, he tried to touch her as little as possible. He'd insisted she wear a dress or nightgown to preserve her modesty. He had tried to treat their nights as a transaction, leaving after he was done. For the first month, he'd hardly spoken a word to her.

But of course that was never how these things went.

191 “What can I do, to help?” he was saving, looking at her with a mixture of guilt and awkwardness.

“I'm fine,” she said.

One night, he had struggled to get it up, and turned from her, embarrassed. She was tired of his formality by then. It made for painful sex, and it had made her feel like a receptacle for his sperm, which, she supposed, she was. But still. She had suggested she just get naked. Seeing her body had fixed his problem.

After that, he started to talk to her more. He never asked about Bea, but he liked to tell her about himself. She knew that he had had two brothers, both gone to the Undercity. His mother had led a charity organization and had been to every country in the world at least once.

His father would take him and his brothers diving in Scotland. He'd alwavs wanted to be Prime

Minister, had thought it important as a first-generation immigrant to prove it could be done. He remembered Egypt only as a hazy blur of sand, but she asked about it often, trying to compare his desert to hers.

“I.we appreciate what vou are doing for us, Bea,” Barak said softlv.

Bea wasn't sure what to sav to that, so she said nothing.

Latelv, when he came to her room, he'd taken his time exploring her. He particularlv liked sucking on her breasts. He was not the most competent of lovers really, but he did try to make sure she came. He still kept his clothes on, and he still made sure never to fall asleep in her bed.

Bea wasn't sure what she would have done if either of these rules changed.

“It's too soon reallv to celebrate. I tried to tell Deborah that. It's verv unlikelv that the child will.it's.. unlikelv the fetus will come to term,” Barak said.

“Yeah, I know,” Bea said, a hand automaticallv going to her stomach.

192 “But, because you are younger.. BritGov studies suggest that it is more likely a younger woman can bring a living child....if, I, a son that would.. obviously, you would be..,” Barak trailed off, shuffling from the right to the left.

This conversation felt strange to Bea, more akin to cheating than the sex ever had done.

Their relationship was confined to their nights in her bedroom. They hardly ever were alone outside of that time, both making sure a third person was present in other interactions.

“You don't have to be cleaning, in your condition, you can just—”

“I'm pregnant, Barak, not ill. I want to be useful,” Bea said firmly. She had had to tell

Deborah as much this morning already. “I always clean the house on Friday.”

“We aren't home.”

“This is our home now, right?”

“It's Saturday.”

“Well, there you go then. I'm late!”

He smiled, and Bea thought that in other circumstances he would have laughed. The bright expression was short-lived, however, and his face descended back into a frown.

“You are so young, Beatrice,” Barak said at last.

“No one forced me to do anything,” Bea said firmly. She had told him as much before.

“Perhaps not,” he said.

But she knew he wasn't fully convinced. He had given in to his attraction for her, long since abandoned the hypocrisy of pretending her body didn't excite him. And she knew it frightened him that part of that excitement came from her youth, from the fact that she would have been forbidden to him before the collapse. The men she'd serviced in the Rent Tents were the same way.

193 Bea would let Barak work through his guilt on his own. She couldn’t solve it for him. She couldn’t make him see that the constraints of his childhood world weren’t applicable anymore.

She could ask him to take the bucket of sick to the sewer, which he did, looking eager for an escape from the conversation that also granted him a way to help her.

She sat alone for a time, staring at the images of twisted and tortured martyrs on the ceiling. Her hand went to her belly, and she wondered how she had gotten to this point, how her life had spun so far from her control.

Every winter, Auntie Becca used to tell her the old story about Coyote. Supposedly long ago, the Great Spirits gave First Man and First Woman a clear purpose for what human life should be. In order to allow their descendants to live according to divine law, First Woman arranged the stars to spell out the answers to Man’s questions and the plan for his destiny. But, while First Woman was looking the other way, Coyote came and played with the stars. He re­ arranged them so that they spelled out nothing at all.

Bea wondered if Coyote had done his mischief in ignorance or out of spite. She wondered if maybe the great Trickster had merely wanted humans to find their own ways. Would it have been any easier if she could read her destiny in the heavens?

*

A year before, a younger broken Beatrice sat in BritGov trying to get home to America.

BritGov had announced a last opportunity to leave the country for foreign nationals, and she had come to answer the summons. The officials, however, were not particularly interested in helping a young girl whose chip labeled her as illegal, delinquent, and possibly assuming a false identity.

194 Bea had her dog Lyra, one backpack which contained three days' worth of dirty clothes, and wore her only clean dress—one that labeled her as a govgal. She had tried to cover the betraying dress with a coat she had found in a dragon lair, but the edges of red still extended down past the coat's trail and men's eyes followed her like she was something to eat. It hadn't bothered her a week before, but it did that morning. She had tried to make herself smaller, tried to sink into her oversized coat even with the red skirt blinding in a room filled with people wearing only desperate shades of grey.

She had never had a VISA to expire, nor, unfortunately, did she have a US passport. Or a birth certificate, for that matter. How, asked the officials, baffled, had she managed to get into the country in the first place? Bea tried to explain, said that she had lost her papers, that her chip was new, that all her proper identification had been stolen, that someone had put a virus into the vast computer network which contained all the information that was her life and erased her.

Identity murder. It was an increasing problem. It was also a lie, and the officials knew it.

So, she tried the truth: She'd left America on one of the last merchant ships to sail across the Atlantic. She had stowed aboard and lived off the crew's leavings for three days before she had been discovered by a kind older sailor who had started slipping her food and teaching her to play chess. He had had a granddaughter her age, he told her, who had died from a mood overdose two years prior. At the end of the voyage she had beaten him twice on the chess board, and he had given her a sincere hug, a pocket chess board of her own (she showed the officials this, her last valuable item for barter), and £300.

The officials didn't believe that story either, though they looked suspiciously at her red dress and perhaps came to their own conclusions as to what these “chess” sessions consisted. Bea

195 knew what they were thinking and found herself properly angry that the world could so little

believe in pure simple kindness anymore.

Under normal circumstances maybe she could have found the man who had helped her

sneak into the UK—his name had been Moses and he had given her more than every assurance

that he would help in the future—if she could bear for him to see her red dress. Perhaps under

normal circumstances she could have found another less kind sailor who appreciated the sorts of

favors the officials assumed she had offered her first protector. But these were not normal

circumstances. Hardly any ships sailed anymore. The US didn't want any new arrivals, and it

was more than willing to use any excuse to refuse access to its shores. Ports had gone from

highly restricted to closed.

By the time she turned up at BritGov's doorstep, Bea had been living in an abandoned

building above ground for almost two months, sleeping during the day only, and always with a

shot gun in her arms. She found a stray dog, now her Lyra, and trained her to stand on guard

while she slept. She woke nearly every hour and would peer down from her windows checking

the streets for dogs or men or worse. She dreamed often of the dead rising to eat her flesh like the

old films about zombies. Her only comfort was when she woke in the morning with Lyra's nose

to her nose and, for a moment, thought she was home with her aunties and their family dog Will.

She was denied BritGov protection when she tried to pitch a tent in the Undercity, even inside the Red Tents. When she tried to move between the Inner and Outer ring of Annwn, or

between cities underground, or to journey above ground, her chip always announced that she was

not in fact registered with BritGov as a govgal. One of the officials who caught her offered to take

her in as his mistress, but, when he started to talk about her eating his shit, she had run away as

fast as she could. Her two closest friends in London, fellow govgals, had both begun plugging

196 into virt to avoid starvation as the ranks of govgals and govguys grew and the potential client population shrank. Bea might be assured clients—she had the advantage of being one of the youngest women alive—but her friends were not. She refused to get the augmentations that were beloved underground. She looked and talked like an upper. Worse, like a foreigner. And this brought her undue attention. She tried holloing, but holograms had to be checked out from govboys or officials, and she was already on their blacklist. The only option left, retreating to virt, didn't appeal to her. Bea had never much liked being in virt, and she didn't like leaving her body unprotected. There were rumors towards the end of a permanent virt plug-in. Supposedly places further south had begun to escape into what were called ARCs, but the new trend had not yet reached Annwn, nor was she interested in being below ground when it did.

Bea had been driven to this desperate measure, asking directly for government help as someone who did not exist in the system, when her last client, the govboy who had let her go above ground in return for her continued services, had brought all his friends to his appointment.

He had insisted she service all of them. Whenever they wanted. Whatever they wanted. For as long as they decided to keep her secrets. The next morning, as she washed away dried sweat and semen,

Bea decided enough was enough. Sore and exhausted, feeling degraded and desperate, Bea had dragged herself to beg for sanctuary from her home country, to beg they allow her to sail back. It didn't occur to her that an American accent hardly proved her citizenship.

And so, on the very worst day of her life, she sat in BritGov awaiting arrest or whatever it was that happened to people like her in a world like this, on the verge of tears but too shocked to cry.

She was not quite fourteen years old.

197 As Bea waited, the doors had opened and in had walked an older woman with a long silver cane. She had a beak nose like a hawk and bright glittering eyes. Bea remembered her looking a bit like a beetle, one of the colorful ones she would sometimes find in her home as a child. She was wearing a deep green dress, the nicest dress Bea had seen in years, and had a badge that signified her connection to BritGov.

“Good afternoon,” the official nearest Bea said softly when the woman approached and jabbed her cane at the counter. “Can we help you?”

But the woman had shook her head. Her eyes circled the room, lingering, Bea noticed, on women, mostly young women. There were a fair few, times were that bad, but all of them were looking down, had barely registered the entrance of this finely-dressed upper who clearly had connections. But Bea was looking up, and so her eyes met the other woman's eyes when they turned to her.

It was strange. People talked of love at first sight. Bea had never experienced such nonsense. But the moment she and Deborah had looked at each other Bea knew somehow that they were connected, that they were part of some bigger story yet to be told. She knew it the same way she knew things in the desert, the same way her Auntie Becca had always said she knew when spirits were at play.

Deborah walked towards her. Later, Bea would know how strange it was that this woman, so often gasping for breath in her talking, was utterly silent. Deborah sat beside her in a chair.

“Well, this is not a place for a pretty girl like you, no indeed not I should think,” Deborah had said after a moment. She reached down and patted Lyra on the head gently and the dog wagged her tail encouragingly. “Why are you here then? Have you been trading in things of

198 Satan rather than the Lord? Falling into paths you shouldn't be traveling? What have you done to end up in a god-forsaken place such as this, child?”

It wasn't said unkindly or even accusingly. Bea thought the other woman sounded weary.

And it was that faint tiredness in Deborah's voice, this sense that she too was in a place she had never intended to be, that made Bea do it; she told the other woman the truth. She told her about her crazy mother. Her strict Aunt Tamar. She told her about running away from school on a dare.

About riding the trains east with her best friend Sheba. She told her about her time in New York living with Sheba and the other street girls. Her decision to go abroad after Sheba had joined up with a radical group of would-be revolutionaries. The ship and the rats. Moses and chess. The threats her illegal status had subjected her to. Her turn to prostitution. She even told Deborah about the night before, how many there had been, what they had asked her to do.

Deborah had not said a word through the entire recital, though it must have taken quite some time. She had held Bea when she started to cry. When she was done, Deborah had patted her on the head saying, “Aren't you a beautiful girl, child. God has blessed you with beauty, He has indeed. You must ask for forgiveness for your sins, you must, for the Lord forgives those who ask. And it is true you have been given much to bear, a great deal too much to bear for one so young, but the Good Book says that this is only God's way of testing his creatures. Your mother should have done much better by you, and, if you were my daughter, let me tell you, then goodness knows I would have done better by you. Now, you just wait here, and you let me take care of this.”

Deborah had whispered with the officials for five minutes, flashed them what Bea now assumed was Barak's credentials, and then taken Bea by the hand back to her home overlooking the palace gardens.

199 Bea's initial impression—Deborah as the one person willing to help—had inspired deep gratitude and sheer quiet devotion that had never fully faded. Whatever else Deborah was, she was the reason Bea had a stable home the last year. If even half the rumors were true, if even half of what Barak sometimes told her was true, Deborah had saved Bea's life that dav as surelv as if she had jumped in front of an oncoming bullet.

Deborah had not demanded she agree to their current arrangement. Bea knew that neither

Deborah nor Barak (nor even Ruth, for that matter) would throw her out on the street. They knew what would happen to her, what had probably happened to all of those people that day with their downcast eyes. They might not have allowed her room in their home, but they would have seen her safe to Father Keegan and the protection of the Cathedral. Bea's hosts had their faults, but thev weren't cruel. Thev were true believers, for one thing, and even though Bea had never bought into any religion, she could appreciate Christian dictates for kindness and hospitality, particularly as she found herself in the very destitute circumstances Jesus asked his followers to correct.

It had not been necessary for her survival that she do what she had decided to do.

Deborah had taken Bea in independent of the favor she would ask of her a week into that stay.

Bea would not lie to herself, though. She knew that Deborah had come to BritGov looking for her or someone else like her who might agree to her scheme. She knew that Deborah had had ulterior motives from the beginning. She thought she had even had an intuition of it that day.

Why else had she made sure to tell Deborah she was sixteen, even as she had been truthful about everything else?

She couldn't find it in herself to be angrv about it. Didn't evervone have selfish interests in mind in the end? Her Aunt Tamar had taken her in because it was right, but also because she

200 wanted Bea to learn the traditions her mother had lost. She wanted Bea to become the woman that her mother had not. Even Moses had helped her because it allowed him to reconnect with his granddaughter. So, Deborah had wanted something from her. That was the world.

When Deborah explained their arrangement to her, however, she had been surprised as to the nature of her host’s desire. The older woman had started from the Bible. It was, Deborah claimed, a Christian solution to the problem.

“Even Father Abraham and his Sarah did it this way. As did Rachel and Leah for Jacob.

All the good wives, when they found themselves barren, they were giving and selfless and did what was necessary to provide a child, yes indeed. They did what was necessary. We are enacting the will of the Lord, oh yes, Him most high! It will be a thing of great glory indeed!”

Deborah had said.

It was simple really. Deborah could not have a child. She had had her seventh miscarriage a week before meeting Bea. Doctor Judith and Elena had both told her to stop trying, and Barak, who was a good sort of person, had told her he would not endanger her life.

Deborah could not have a child. But Beatrice theoretically could.

*

Later that afternoon, Essie invited Bea to join her “on a stroll to meet a friend.” Beatrice, tired of her own thoughts, agreed.

They walked down the streets, thick with grass and bushes that scraped Bea’s legs. She stopped Essie to look at a lone buck who stood drinking water from the side of the road that had become a stream, his flank next to what had once been a taxi and now had turned green with

201 moss. Bea hadn't seen a deer in years. Essie raised her gun, but Bea motioned her to lower it with pleading eyes. The older woman shrugged, and they left the creature in peace.

As they walked in comfortable silence, Bea's mind turned again and again to her mother, the woman who had abandoned her at her aunts' doorstep, a practitioner of the cult of SAW who felt she must bring children into the world but had not believed it necessary to raise them. Her mother had not wanted her child, had not thought twice over giving it up to another woman.

Bea wondered now if it really had been that easy, her hand gently resting on her tight stomach. She had never expected to actually get pregnant. Deborah and Barak were going to try for a year or two and then give up. That was what Bea had thought.

The baby wouldn't survive, anyway.

She had not really thought about what she would do if it did.

Bea kept glancing behind her. She had the oddest feeling that they were being followed, but she didn't see anyone on the street. Perhaps it was just left-over paranoia from the church, which always made her feel the heebie-jeebies. They were winding south closer and closer to the entrance to Annwn. Bea generally avoided trips to Chelsea. She had asked Deborah to take her around the neighborhood when they had gone to Elena's. She felt safe with Essie, though. The big woman could surely protect her if she ran into any old acquaintances.

They came to an entrance to the Undercity. It was leaf-strewn, turned a red-purple from the trees above. Two govboys were sitting by the gate on the ground, their guns at the ready. They wore thick sunglasses covering their black eyes. One of them looked like a former client, a kid who came to a govgal to lose his virginity just so he could say he had done it. He hadn't been a govboy then, though, and it was hard to tell for sure if it was the same person under the glamour. He was dyed a dark red with white stripes.

202 If it was the boy she was thinking of, he clearly did not recognize her. Neither of the two guards looked much at them at all. They were absorbed in a conversation between themselves.

“Mark says it's for sure,” said her govboy.

“Don't believe on it,” said the other. He had dyed himself blue. Together, they looked like the British flag, which, she supposed, was the point.

“They gotta let us go on in sometime soon. Not much left to process, is there? I bet

Mark's right.”

“Tomorrow? Too soon. Hear it's weeks out.”

“Nope, goin' to go on to ARC tomorrow. That's what they say. Just gotta get the next load o' drifters in. Then, wham, bam, paradise! Props'll be a-takin' on over the rest.”

“I hear it's weeks out.”

“Tomorrow, for certain.”

As they walked by, Bea watched a group of govboys moving out a big white bin from the

Underground. It was large enough for Essie to lie in it comfortably and, from the way the govboys were walking it looked heavy. They set it down once they were on the street—there were wheels on the bottom—and walked it across to an old church that had been converted into a govgrub station.

“Well, look there,” Essie said. She whistled. “More of the white boxes, huh?”

“Hmm,” said Bea. As she said it, another white bin appeared, carried by two more govboys.

The two women started to move away, but Bea stopped Essie.

“What are those kids doing?” she said quietly. Further up the street was a massive oak tree and there were two teenage boys up in the branches. One was watching the govgrub station

203 across the street with binoculars that looked like they had recently been taken from a dragon lair in the Undercity. Meanwhile the other boy appeared to be recording the movement of the white bins on an old video camera.

“Oh,” said Essie, “it's just The Crew. I'm meeting up with one of them.”

They walked on up the street, coming out of view of the govboy guards. There was a third boy at the base of the tree looking suspiciously from right to left and smoking some rolled basil. The whole group was wearing browns and greens to blend with the trees.

“Surprised you haven't gotten caught yet. Hey little commander,” Essie said as they approached the tree.

“My Lady Esther, I presume,” the smoking boy said, mock-bowing eLabourately. His lilt still bore the Irish of his parents but had incorporated a slight Cockney twinge in the vowels. He was around thirteen, maybe younger, with natural orange hair so bright in the wilds that the cap he had pulled over his head to dampen it had to be a move of sheer survival. The freckles dotting his face were more plentiful than the whiskers on Lyra's. “Who is your escort, Essie?”

“This is Bea. Bea, this is Ahab Finnegan.”

“Pleasure,” said Ahab, accepting Bea's hand with his free one and swooping down to kiss it. “Though I usually go by Melville topside. Do you want a smoke, Essie?”

“My poison comes in a bottle, kid.”

“I don't have that, sorry,” Ahab said, letting out a long breath of smoke.

“Any activity?”

“Just the usual,” said Ahab. “Bea, you know how many coolers come out of the

Undercity every day?”

“Not a clue,” said Bea.

204 “Fifty-seven yesterday from this entrance alone. You know what's happening, don't you?

The down-dwellers all do, of course. But proving it to the uppers, that's a job and a half. Even big­ shots don't all know, they say.”

“Okay,” Bea said.

“We're not mad, if that's what you're thinking,” said Ahab. “It isn't paranoid to exercise reasonable skepticism and arrive at the correct conclusion. And we'll prove it soon enough.

Anyhow, I was there, right, when they made the announcements. Just trying to prove it to you blind uppers.”

“What are you trying to prove?” asked Bea.

“That's for us to know, and you to find out.”

Bea laughed, “Fine, fine. Why the old-school filming? Why not use your chips and comms?”

“Because,” said Ahab, and his voice sounded more condescending than the elder Ruth did when she was lecturing, “BritGov has control of the comms and chips. They monitor our conversations.”

Essie clapped Ahab on the shoulder, “Good man.”

“Melville, there's definitely stuff being put into some sort of furnace over there, I think,” said one of the boys in the tree. “I can see flames at least. Pretty sure there's some orange light.”

“Well,” said the boy recording on the old video camera, “that makes sense. They would have to sanitize quickly.”

“You kids freelancing?” asked Bea.

“They want to join up with the Sisterhood,” said Essie.

“You're too young!” Bea said.

205 “Nonsense. Age is just a number. We're helping the cause,” said Ahab. “We all do our part. They know us at the docks.”

“Isn't the leader of the Sisterhood dead?” Bea said.

“We will continue, with or without our fearless leader,” said Ahab. “But that should tell you something, shouldn't it, how fast BritGov gets rid of dissidents. The great programmer

Yahweh was violently murdered.”

“Precisely,” Essie said. “You should be more careful, idiot kid.”

“It's our future that's on the line,” Ahab pointed out reasonably. “Seems like we should be doing our part. You should join on, Lady Bea.”

“Well, she's coming with us today, anyway,” Essie said.

“Righto. Well, do lead on,” Ahab said with a smile to Bea. He looked up to the tree.

“You two, keep the lookout.”

His two friends gave him the thumbs up, and then he detached himself and followed

Essie, who was moving deeper into Chelsea. Bea trailed behind them both, intrigued. She noticed

Ahab was carrying two lanterns—he handed one to Essie—and wondered why. When she asked where they were going, however, they only shushed her.

*

Half an hour found the group of three walking down into the cellar of a wine shop. The building was in surprisingly good shape. The shop was trashed, but the cellar had been locked up—Essie had broken the lock with her gun—and no one had looted down here. The stone

206 foundation was firm. Essie lit her lantern to guide them deeper, passing shelves stuffed with dusty bottles, the smell musky and pungent in the stale air.

Their footsteps threw up dust from the cellar floor and murmured dully against the stone.

Bea reached out to touch one of the bottles, brushing away the layer of dirt. The bottles were green, blue, and black. The label on the bottles matched the sign that had overhung the shop itself: a small island with Paradise written in a calligraphed hand beneath.

Ahab looked smaller in the cellar. He seemed less certain of himself inside the enclosure, and Bea was reminded of his age. She reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. He smiled at her, trying to pull back some of the bravado from before.

The smell of earth grew stronger as they moved further into the space. In the spring, she and her aunties used to find the fresh dirt. Bea would eat it, loving the musty scent, loving the feel of energy that transferred to her as she consumed the raw clay.

They came to the end of the cellar. Next to the last shelf of bottles was a painting of an old worn-out sailor, her nose red, her hair grey, and her eyes haunted. A long-jagged scar ran down the right side of her face across her right eye. The sailor was wearing a long black coat buttoned up tight. Her skin was the color of tree bark and her eyes shaped like almonds.

Something told her the woman had once been quite beautiful, but time had taken away her bloom. Bea felt drawn to the painting, quite sure she had seen it before somewhere, that it was perhaps a famous image from long ago.

“She looks a bit like vou, Bea,” Ahab said, looking at the painting.

“You think?”

“I can see it,” Essie said. “Mavbe vour great gran. Mv brother used to own this place.

Knew his share of secrets. I'm about to let vou in on one of them.”

207 Essie carefully reached for the painting and removed it from the wall.

Bea gasped. There was a what looked like a long tunnel behind the portrait, stretching forward and down into darkness.

“Old tunnel,” Essie said. “Used to be there were lots of secret tunnels under London.

BritGov linked most of them with the Undercity and blocked off the entrances. But they forgot a few here and there. This used to be a route for smugglers to the Thames a long time ago. It links in down to Annwn now. Forgotten by near everyone in the city.”

“Wow,” Bea said. The tunnel was just shy of Bea’s height—she could probably walk through it hunched over— and wide enough for her to put her elbows out but not much else.

“If you’d like, Bea, you can wait here. Not going to be a pleasant trip,” Ahab said. He had pulled out a gun that had been hidden in his pocket. He and Essie were both lighting the lanterns they had carried with them.

“I’m coming with you,” Bea said immediately. The dark damp cellar was not a place she wanted to be in alone.

“Suit yourself,” Essie said.

There was a loud bang above them, and all three looked to the ceiling.

Essie shouldered her shotgun, “Let’s keep going.”

*

The tunnel went on for at least a quarter mile. It never got any smaller, but it didn’t get much larger either. Bea and Ahab only needed to bend their heads forward, but Essie was crouched low, and she grumbled about the “lack of consideration for people of height.”

208 Ahab sniggered.

They were descending deeper into the earth. The tunnel smelled like dirt mixed with something like smoke. Bea thought of sage. Her hands felt the walls. They were smooth and wet.

The air felt heavy, like they were walking through fog, and Bea was more than a little afraid the entire structure would collapse on top of them. She heard a gentle drip-drop sound as water fell from the ceiling to the ground. Occasionally they stepped into puddles.

“Nearly there,” Essie said from the front confidently.

Bea, who brought up the rear, looked behind her. She thought she could see a light somewhere behind them, but it could just be a reflection of their own lantern against the glistening wet walls.

“You still planning on going under, Ahab?” Essie asked. “That's what they told me you were up to.”

“Yeah, have to chat with my sis,” he said.

“Not the brightest idea you've ever had. Do you think you'll change her mind?”

“No.”

“Well, I can respect that,” she said.

They were starting to head up again. Essie and Ahab were quiet. The smell of the air had changed. Bea thought she could detect iron and a hint of sulfur. Essie stopped suddenly, and

Ahab nearly ran into her.

“Just need to open it up over here,” the big woman said softly. “And make sure no one's.. .around.”

“Right,” Ahab said.

209 Both were whispering, and Bea could feel the tension mounting, felt goosebumps rising on her arms. She shivered, realizing how cold she was, how much the damp air had entered into her jacket.

She heard a thump ahead of her, and suddenly the tunnel was filled with a harsh white light. She couldn't quite see what Essie was doing. The big woman was framed in the white light. There was a pause, and she heard her breathing, Ahab's, Essie's, and then she heard several more bangs and a creaking noise.

“Lowering the ladder,” Essie said.

Then Essie was climbing down out of the tunnel. Ahab quickly followed her.

Bea reached the edge of the tunnel and looked down. There was a bright and shiny steel ladder lowered into a brightly-lit metal room. Freezing white air was coming from it into the tunnel. What looked like frozen meat lined the room—govgrub, probably. It was a freezer.

Ahab was coming off the ladder. He looked up and motioned for Bea to follow him.

She didn't want to. Something told her it would be far better to stay in the tunnel and await their return.

Yet she heard a thumping behind her, and, out of fear more than courage, turned to face the way she had come and set her feet on to the ladder.

Bea was afraid of heights. Not to a point of it being crippling, but she didn't like not feeling supported, and she certainly didn't like ladders. She kept her eyes on the metal rungs, not looking down, just climbing slowly step by step. The room was small, and it was very cold. She shivered. The metal of the ladder was like ice.

“Almost there,” Ahab said encouragingly.

“Shut up,” Bea muttered.

210 What's that?

“Nothing.”

Her feet scrambled for purchase and then felt the floor. She nearly slipped on the wrapped gobgrub, which filled the room as high as her waist. Ahab's hands were there to stop her from falling. “Did you climb down with your eyes closed?”

“No,” Bea said, she moved to the side, sinking into the packages of meat. She waded over to the center of the room, which seemed to have a path out.

“All steaks?” she said.

“That's what this room is for.”

The meat was red and raw, all in packets that looked like one serving of govgrub.

Everyone would get the equivalent of this twice a day on ration. Perfect portions the size of her fist.

“Come on,” Essie said, motioning them out of the freezer and towards the room beyond.

Bea breathed into her hands and rubbed them together, trying to warm them.

“It's weirdly clean in here,” she said to Ahab.

“Yeah.”

“Are we in the Undercity? This their govgrub supply?”

“Sort of?” Ahab said. “We're.above the Dens. I imagine this goes up and down.”

Bea looked at him, but his face was set forward. He was following Essie, who had already left the little room with the ladder.

The lighting in here was electric, and Bea hadn't seen electricity since Annwn and the generators. She had become accustomed to the warm fire light, the soft flickering of the candle, the oil lamps. She noticed every flaw on her hands, the little scars on her thumb from chicken

211 pox, the cracks from dryness, the dirt under her fingernails. The texture of the meat was clearer than it usually was when she sat at the dinner table for govgrub chicken or steak. It looked good, red with lots of fat. She could almost taste it cooked over the fire.

“Bea?”

She stepped forward towards her companions. The light seemed to follow her, turning off as she left the room and leaving the ladder in darkness behind her. Her arms crossed over her chest. The coldness of the room had not diminished and her teeth were chattering.

Her footsteps took her into the next room slowly. For a moment, she was looking only at

Essie's face, which was set and stern. For a moment, she was only processing how huge this room was that she had entered, taking in the machines that looked nearly a block away from her, the chugging noise of wheels turning and blades slicing.

The moment passed.

Then Bea screamed.

The room was filled with human corpses. They piled were piled one on top of the other until they were nearly indistinguishable as individuals. They had become a mass. A hundred, a thousand? Bodies littered the floor, frozen in the cold air. Each and every one had its head cut open, the top of the head missing from the point of the eyebrow on up. The partial skulls were empty; the brains had been removed.

Bea backed out of the room towards the ladder, her hand over her mouth.

“Bea, relax.”

She turned, looking back at the govgrub steaks revealed by the bright white electric light.

She backed away from them.

212 She fell to her knees and vomited, heaving up a lunch of govgrub chicken over lettuce that Deborah had made lovingly for her. She had gobbled it down and asked for a second serving.

She curled up on the ground, crouched, putting her head between her legs.

“Bea?”

“Give her a moment,” Essie said.

She felt herself shaking. She picked up her head to dry heave, but she had nothing left to throw-up.

Essie was crouching down beside her, “You alright?”

She shook her head no.

“Well, there, there. No helping it,” Essie said.

“Elevator's coming,” Ahab said.

Bea felt her heart pounding. She rose quickly, her gun raised instinctively, starting to back up towards the ladder. She had not noticed the doors on the far wall but saw little red lights rising in an upward motion and remembered vaguely the concept of elevators.

“Bea,” Essie said slowly, her hand on her shoulder, “it's okay. Nothing is coming to hurt you. Annwn is all processed. The elevator on the far side, that's the one we need to worry about.

The one from the top. But no one's coming from the bottom except the person we're waiting for.”

“I... I don't.I..,” Bea didn't have words.

“It's the easiest way to get someone out. Through the towns that have fully gone to

ARC.”

213 Neither Ahab nor Essie looked at all surprised. Nothing about this chamber of horrors had phased them.

They already knew.

The elevator was rising, and then it dinged.

Despite her reassurance, Bea noticed that both Essie and Ahab were pointing their guns firmly at the doors.

They opened revealing a woman. She stepped forward slowly, carrying a knife out and ready. She was holoing, Bea could tell from the slightly hazy outline of her features. Holos worked better in the dark then they did in the light, and the bright white flood lights were cutting up the image. The woman seemed to realize this. She flicked her wrist and her shape changed from a middle-aged white woman to a very young Indian girl, younger perhaps than even Bea.

“Vashti,” Ahab said quietly. The girl looked over to them, her eyes terrified, but she relaxed when she saw Ahab. She walked carefully to them, not looking at the corpses that framed her to the right and to the left, and came up to the boy with the orange hair, giving him a tight hug.

“Didn’t know when you were a-comin’ precise,” Vashti said in a small voice. “Didn’t wanna go waitin’ up here long. I came up before, and I...I went right back down.”

“Just don’t you go a-lookin’ at anything ’n anything,” Ahab said, his voice switching effortlessly to down-dweller. “We’ll be gettin’ you out fast now.”

Essie was stepping forward to talk to the girl, Ahab putting a hand on her shoulder. All three had set their weapons back at their sides. Bea tried to look directly at them, at the crying girl, at the reassuring big woman, at the boy who looked so happy his friend was here alive. She

214 tried not to look to the machines on the far left. Tried not to look at the pile of corpses. She didn't want to breathe through her nose and smell anything.

And then, suddenly, Bea felt herself pulled from behind. She let out a scream that was stifled by a hand. There was a gun at her throat. Her heart was pounding fast in her chest, everything zeroing in. She tried to calm down. She could kick backwards and break free. But she didn't want to accidentally get shot.

“You are taking me down there!”

Ahab and Vashti jumped. Even Essie seemed startled.

Bea felt her shock mount. It was Elena pointing a gun to her throat. Elena who had brought her herbal remedies and helped her through a bout of sniffles.

“Elena,” Essie said slowly, “let Bea go.”

“Not until the boy takes me down there,” she said, her breath coming against Bea's ear.

“You are going to help me find my daughter.”

“How did you even get here, lady?” Ahab said. He was looking at her with utter shock.

Vashti, meanwhile, had moved slightly in front of Ahab protectively.

“I followed you,” Elena said. “I knew Essie was going to meet you, Melville. Heard her on the radio. So, I followed. And you are going to get me to Ruth.”

“She's probably already dead,” Essie said quietly. “You see what BritGov has been doing, Elena. You see what—”

“You said,” and Elena's gun swung to Essie, who raised her hands in the air. Bea moved to the side, shaking. “You said that some of the towns weren't.. .that they weren't.. .processed.

That's the word you said. Which towns aren't processed down there?”

“Elena, please.”

215 Elena was sobbing, but she wiped her tears away angrily, “Because if Ruth's alive, then

she's in one of those towns! Which ones are nearby? Which ones? You think I won't shoot? You

really don't want to test me right now, Essie. She could only walk. She couldn't have gotten far.

Which towns?”

“Niflheim, Naraka, 'n Sheol are still a-waitin' to plug on into ARCs,” Vashti said quietly.

“Sheol's pretty far along though. You best to search Nif and Naraka.”

“You know the way?” Elena asked, pointing the gun at Ahab.

Bea broke out of her shock and reached for her own gun, but Elena caught the motion and

grabbed her by the hair, her gun pointed at her throat again.

“Elena, please,” she whispered. The other woman was shaking violently, and Bea felt her

warm tears falling to her ear and dropping to her cheek.

“I asked if you know the way, Melville?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know the way. But lady, they're going to be forcing the process

soon, right? This has been voluntary so far but—”

“You are going to take me to each of those three towns, until we find my daughter. And

then you are going to guide us back here to get out.”

“Fine!” Ahab said. “I'll take you. Just put the gun down. Look, I'm going myself

anyway. It's fine.”

Essie had opened her mouth, but Ahab gave her a look, “It's fine. Really.”

“Ahab?” it was Vashti now, and she looked terrified.

“It's fine 'n fine, Vashti. Essie'll take you 'n Bea out o' here, right? I have to go on down

to Naraka anyways. Gotta try wi' Jez again.”

“Good,” Elena said. “Now move over to the elevator, nice and slow.”

216 “Let Bea go first,” Essie said.

“Not until Melville and I are on that elevator,” Elena said, her breath heavy again in

Bea's ears.

She walked Bea forward through the field of corpses. Bea's heart pounded. Essie backed away. Vashti moved towards Essie. But Ahab was standing at the elevator.

“Ahab, you don't have to,” Bea started.

“Shut it!” Elena said harshly.

“It's fine,” Ahab said. “Really, it's fine. I need to go down too. You could have just asked, lady.”

Bea didn't think it would be much use trying to make a rational argument with Elena right now.

The elevator dinged up, and the doors opened.

Ahab stepped on. Elena dragged Bea on.

“You said you'd let her go,” he said.

Bea closed her eyes.

Then she felt herself being thrown forward.

She collapsed on the floor of the human larder just as the doors of the elevator dinged shut.

217 Countdown: 1 Day

She wants to plug in. Bad. It's easier to stop thinkin' when you're under, 'n Orpah doesn't much know how else to deal wi' the world but to stop thinkin' 'bout it or to scream hard at it. She remembers feelin' different when Papa was alive. But he's dead 'n that's that.

Thinkin' too much on Papa. 'N Mum. Mimi. Grandma. Even Aunt Debs 'n Uncle Barak.

Thinkin' on them all.

Why'd she take the nostalgia patch, anyway? She's tryin' to understand Jez, you see, tryin' so hard. Jez says they should be sad. She's tryin'.

She wants to go plug on in so bad it's drivin' her to absolute distraction. Waitin' twenty- four hours is too damn long! It's like those times when you are so close 'n the last bit o' time won't just go on 'n pass by. The partyin', the talkin', even makin' sweet love, nothing 'n nothing's workin' on her. The orange 1 on her palm won't go on 'n turn to 0.

Orpah decides to visit the prophet Mad Mary to force time to hurry on up. Mary lives up

'n up on the staircase above Tartarus 'neath Charing. It's a walk considerable through the tunnels, but she needs it. Walks it on her own. Dealin' wi' the nostalgia low. Leaves Jez in

Narata plannin' some virt stuff.

The whole area's covered in rubbish. Tartarus has plugged on in all. One of the first on rotations. People left for other places 'cuz once they ARC a town, no regular virts.

No place else to run anymore. Every town's gone to ARC.

Used to be the staircases are fill o' dragons. Dragons guardin' the pretty rubbish safe.

Most all elder uppers who'd OD'ed on moods or down-dwellers who'd been kicked on out of the

Tent Cities 'cuz they plugged in too long 'n lost their minds. More 'n more just rebbed out,

'course. Used to be, but dragons are a-fadin'. Dragguys 'n draggals hoarded 'n bartered away

218 their worthless jewels to any person who'd offer them food or 'motions. Fewer 'n fewer people

care for the rubbish, though, 'n most of the dragons died off hungry or from mood overdose after

takin' a lair. Then people went 'n started killin' them for fun. Huntin' dragons is popular wi'

govboys in partic. They get tats for everyone they take off the staircases. So, dragons came 'n

went, 'n they're not worth thinkin' on much. Sad part o' meat-world.

'Cept Mary.

Mary's been guardin' her lair as long as any person can remember, 'n people think maybe

she turns the air to food or eats the dark. Most of the govboys are scared of her 'n give her space a­ plenty. People say she'll be guardin' the gates long after everyone's in virts.

She's an oracle, 'sides. Gives out future tales for nothing 'n nothing. Gomer went off to

see her a long time ago 'n still tells the story wi' shivers. Ahab the idiot used to go up to see her

time 'n again. Orpah's never been. Doesn't pay much mind to prophets. But she has a-hungerin'

for something 'n thinks of Mary. Always has a thing for Mary. Can't say why precise. Just likes

the idea o' her fine. No one's never got a prophesy from her she can understand, but that's

oracles for you.

It smells o' shit 'n vomit on the staircases. There're whole teamin' buckets worth of shit

left here, most turnin' to fertilizer. It's not rank anymore; shit's been too long. Uppers used to go

'n leave it before all the migrations, but now it's down-dwellers who make the stairs awful. No

one ever could work out plumbin' for so many people in the Tent Cities, so they all go 'n dump

it like a big shit barrier 'tween uppers 'n downers. The people who leave the buckets are better

than the people who dump them. Coats the stairs with human slime 'n filth. The dragons used to make some o' the reekin' rotten smell too; their unwashed bodies soaked in the air round them.

But dragons helped the smell too, burnin' incense all the time. She can smell some o' that faint.

219 Orpah tries not to think too much 'bout where she puts her feet. She covers her nose 'n mouth. She looks away from a skeleton. Fierce-lookin' skeleton sittin' in tattered rags.

Her eyes are a-roamin' the lairs for barter as she walks on up. No dragons to guard anymore 'n you can't go better than dragon lairs for good finds! All she sees is pretty rubbish.

Jewelry 'n watches, metal statues, old broken electronics, gold 'n gems, coins. Upper wealth all.

There're no books for burnin' or even paper money. No chip scans or portvirts, no moods.

Nothing worth nothing.

Orpah sees a necklace made o' rubies. Glitterin' red. She likes rubies, thought 'bout changin' her name to Ruby before she settles on Orpah. She doesn't go for the pretty bauble.

Couldn't wear it without temptin' thieves 'n worse. She'll make a better one in virt.

“Pretty gal, barter a 'motion for gold?” The voice comes from high on up, from the darkness near to the top of the stairs. There's smoke curlin' out from there smellin' like bay leaves 'n eucalyptus. She'll have to go 'n ask Jez 'bout that.

“No, no,” Orpah calls. “No 'motions on me.”

The draggal sniffs loud 'n Orpah hears her lay back in a mountain of gold coins.

“Ruth! The fire-headed,” whispers Mary. She starts a-strummin on a guitar as Orpah comes on up to her. The tunnels start a-echoin' wi' a hauntin' melody Orpah doesn't recognize.

Then Mary goes 'n starts singin':

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time ago

220 She thinks ’bout askin’ for the guitar, but she has one already ’n hers is better tuned.

She’ll have all the instruments she wants tomorrow. Can learn songs too from the virt banks.

Could find this one if she looks.

She keeps on walkin’ up. The lairs thin out ’n she sees a flickerin’ candle up through the dark. Mary’s lair. The smells of basil ’n eucalyptus grow strong. Burns out the reekin’ stink.

Orpah walks careful to the left.

“’Lo Mary,” Orpah says. The draggal stops her singin’ ’n strummin’. She’s a ‘lil old lady.

Looks a bit like Orpah’s Mimi topside. Or she might have once looked like Mimi. But, like most dragons, she doesn’t much look human at all anymore. Mary has the longest white hair you’ve ever seen. The longest yellow fingernails too. Her face’s so dirty it’s hard to see her wrinkles. She has no teeth ’n no eyes. Orpah hears tell she lost the first ’n she traded the second. She does have piercings in more places than Gomer, in her ears, her nose, her lips, ’n her naked nipples. Her clothes only just cover her unmentionables up. Orpah isn’t sure the rags are clothes precise.

“Spare us a ’motion,” Mary croaks. “Care to spare us that.”

“What would you do with ’motions?” Orpah asks. “It isn’t good for you, Mary.”

Orpah kneels on down beside the older woman, breathin’ in the strong scent of hallelujah mixin’ wi’ the basil ’n eucalyptus incense. She wonders whether Mary’s eyes would be golden right now if she still had them.

“Look Mary,” Orpah says. “I don’t have hallelujah, ’n even if I did, you’ve taken enough, yeah? You don’t wanna die, now do you?”

“Exaltations, exaltations!” murmurs Mary.

“Precise.”

“Spare us a ’motion?”

221 “Don't have nothing 'n nothing, not even despair, yeah? Sorry, Mary, old gal.”

The draggal turns her face up at Orpah wi' a wider smile, showin' off her toothless mouth before returnin' to that dull stupid grin you see wi' a slight hallelujah boost. Mary's ghostin' near to a prophet. Orpah hopes she doesn't have another hallelujah needle in wi' the gold coins.

“You got any wisdom for me, Mary?”

“Dark days ahead, Orpah daughter o' Elena. I turn 'n see before me a lake o' ice stretchin' ‘neath my feet. I'm a-tremblin' in the eternal cold. I see their eyes, drippin' tears down to their lips, 'n the cold freezes the tears 'tween them, lockin' all together. The bitter coldness of the dark. Beware! No Sun, no stars, winter always 'n forever. Blind little girl walkin' through the snow. Girl wi' the silver eyes, born again 'n again. Go seek the light, Silver Eyes, seek the light.

Climb up that hidden road to make your way back up to the bright new world. Never rest. See once more the stars.”

“You don't make no sense, Mary.”

“Take care through the dark wood. Wander not from the straight path.”

“Okay,” Orpah says. The words aren't helpin' her. She's not sure why she ever thought they would.

“Came to say goodbye,” Orpah says. “Guess someone should say goodbye to even the likes o' you, Mary.”

“Exaltations!” says Mad Mary, starin' straight up wi' her empty eyes.

“Goin' to plug in. Forever. Won't never get out. Don't never want to get out. They'll get rid o' my meat.”

Mary holds out her lil' pail, waitin' to see if Orpah will drop anything. She lays down some govgrub sausage at the prophet's feet.

222 “Exaltations!”

Orpah shakes her head even though Mary can't see. She backs away slow. Starts goin' on back down the staircase, listenin' to Mary play her guitar. She's singin' away at a new song:

Down yonder green meadow where streamlets meander

When twilight is fading, I pensively roam

Or in the bright noon tide in solitude wander

Amid the dark spaces of that lonely ash grove.

Orpah shouldn't have taken that nostalgia patch, she's near to cryin'. She tries to block it all out, but she's a-thinkin' on Papa. He sang to her when she was little. Would go 'n take her on a knee, sing soft. Mum would stand near, listenin' close. She remembers watchin' them dance once in the kitchen, no music, just dancin'.

She sees two govboys walkin' down from above with their big white coolers. They're stoppin' 'n restin' when they start pointin' to Mary strummin' her guitar like she's in a bloody band. Drawin' attention to herself. Fool of a dragon.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;

No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.

They walk on over to her, 'n Orpah tries hard to get down, down, down before they get there. But she only gets five steps below before they start.

I only can brood on the past and its brightness.

The dear ones I long for—

The first shot hits the draggal in the chest. Orpah sees the impact, sees her fallin' backward, still holdin' the guitar. Then the bullets come one after another. She can't count the shots. She doesn't know when Mary dies. When they stop, the draggal's red wi' blood, the guitar

223 layin' 'cross her lap has gone 'n turned red, the coins where she's a-layin' turnin' red too.

There's not much left of her but red. Red gurgles from her mouth.

The govboys laugh, openin' the cooler 'n puttin' the red sack of rags inside bit by bit.

Orpah hears a snap when they break the dead legs to fit. She can't stop watchin'. One o' the govboys looks up, sees her, 'n smiles into her silver eyes wi' those black pits. He blows her a kiss. His arms are stained crimson from elbow to finger tips, 'n his lips turn lipstick red when he puts his hands there.

“If you wanna have a good night, sweetness, I can make it worth your while,” he says, eyin' her just like he was eyin' the govgal.

Orpah backs away, 'n both the govboys laugh.

They walk up 'n away towards upper London, she watchin' them wi' her heart beatin' 'n racin' fast.

She waits for what feels like a long time, starin' at the blood-covered guitar draped over that big mountain of gold. Then she turns 'n descends back towards Naraka as quick as she can, headin' away from the horror, headin' to Jez, headin' to plug on in. Forever.

224 Sunday

Sunday. The Cathedral sings out a song of welcome as the students of Miss Rachel's class raise their voices. Everyone stands in their joyous prayer. Deborah sings along with a voice perpetually out of tune but loud for all that. Beside her, Barak manages to hit every note with confidence. Ruth, who sits at the end of the pew next to her son-in-law has a competent soprano. Beatrice pretends to sing, Myriam trying to direct her to hymnal the time and again.

Behind her, Sarah Jameson tuts disapproval and pokes the young girl.

“Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace to people of good will.

We praise you,

we bless you,

we adore you,

we glorify you,

we give you thanks for your great glory,

Lord God, heavenly King,

O God, almighty Father.”

Their voices echo upwards towards the high ceilings, where Essie sits, her hands folded, looking down at the top of their heads. It echoes to the small chapels, where the imam and the rabbi are playing cards. It echoes even down to the crypt, falling on ears long deaf.

The smell of frankincense hangs heavy on the air. Smoke swirls from the ceremonial candles. From each window, a dull light struggles to find its way to each bright face. Father

Keegan crosses himself, looking out over the Nave with a smile.

225 “Good morning, brothers and sisters in Christ,” Father Keegan says. “The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” the parishioners echo back.

“Please bow your heads.”

And they do. Only Essie, sitting high above in an alcove, her face catching the sun with and a raised eyebrow, keeps her head upright.

“Oh Lord, our God, please bless this church today. Bring us together as one to better serve you. Let us lift our voices, our minds, and our souls in love. Prepare our fragile hearts to receive you. We make this prayer in His name, Amen.”

“Amen.”

*

Morning.

From the tall tower of the Cathedral, London spread below in a riot of autumn colors, the rooftops festive, the cloudy skies hardly dampening the view. The buildings looked like toys from here, the trees mere toothpicks, and the few people on the street like little dolls.

Bea sat with Essie playing chess. Lyra was resting her head in Bea's lap, drooling. She could see Deborah and Barak walking away from the church, heading out towards Parliament in the east. She thought she could see the house that she had called home to the west. The river sparkled somewhere beyond her sight, and she knew it eventually would meet the sea.

226 She was shaken from the day before. Her hand rested on Lyra's head, patting it to reassure herself. The service this morning had not helped her, though she had tried to immerse herself in the ritual of it all as she had done with the ceremonies of her childhood.

Essie nonchalantly took Bea's rook, ruining her plan of attack.

“I like you, Bea,” Essie said suddenly. Despite the clouds and gloom, she was framed in a ray of light, her white top bright, her eyes glowing with a reflection of the sun.

Bea laughed, “I like you too, Essie.”

She reframed her strategy, trying to box in the white king with her queen. She had to do it carefully, though. Essie would notice a frontal attack and block her.

“I don't often like people,” Essie said, moving her bishop. “But I really hope you end up okay. Do you ever feel as if you've known someone before? As if you've known them in a different life or something?”

“Not really...I mean. Maybe. Sort of.”

She moved a pawn, watching Essie smirk at her.

“I feel that way with you,” Essie said, taking her bishop. “Check.”

“Right,” Bea wasn't sure how to respond to that. She moved her king out of danger.

“I'll miss you. Check.”

Bea moved her king out of danger again. She looked over at the other woman, “You make it sound like you are going away.”

“Well,” Essie said, “yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“What do you mean?”

227 But Essie was silent, looking out across the city. She leaned on the railing, the muscles in her arms straining outwards. Her eyes looked distant to Bea, her mouth was set in a straight line.

Below, Bea saw Solomon walking with Vashti.

“I’m sending her to the Docks,” Essie said slowly. “She’ll be safe enough there. Maybe you will end up friends.”

Essie turned back to the chess board and moved her queen. Bea tried not to smile as she moved another pawn.

“The Sisterhood will take to her just like that, Vashti?” Bea asked.

“Oh, I think they will,” Essie said, smiling. She repositioned her rook, close to putting

Bea’s king in danger again.

Bea looked at her sideways. The big woman was wearing a tank top despite the cold, and the twisting black tattoos climbing her arms told stories. She knew that Essie had at least once belonged to the Docks. She thought of her dream lover, her Coyote. He had tattoos up his arms as well. He had not come to her since she had been in the church.

It was strange how lonely the absence of her dreams made her feel.

Bea moved her queen. “Checkmate,” she said.

Essie glanced at her, glanced back down at the board, stared at it a moment, and then toppled her king, “Well played, Bea.”

It was the first time she had ever managed to beat the other woman, and she felt the victory running in her veins like fire.

“I have a story to tell you, Bea,” Essie said. “I think it’s one you should hear.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to tell it to your kid someday.”

228 Bea looked at the other woman, her hand resting over her tummy. Lyra gave a sleepy bark.

“Promise me you'll tell the kid?”

“I will,” Bea said.

And Essie told her the story of her life from start to finish. When she was done, Bea was pretty sure it was all made up, but she promised again to tell it to her daughter anyway.

“You want to see something amazing,” Essie asked, smiling.

Bea looked at her and laughed nervously, “Sure.”

“Checkmate, Bea.”

Afterwards, Bea would swear that she had been drugged, that it was a trick of the light, that she was so emotionally spent that she had begun to hallucinate. She had a hundred explanations to offer herself.

What she saw did not make any sense, after all. It wasn't possible. For, right in front of her eyes, Esther Smith suddenly disappeared. She vanished into thin air, fading away like a holo in the Undercity. Lyra barked in alarm, chasing Essie's scent around the tower in circles.

Sitting on the stone floor where the other woman had been was a shiny black wine bottle.

Bea never saw Essie again.

*

Deborah at first does not recognize the Scripture, expecting words of comfort rather than words of prophecy. Ruth, however, knows from the start this reading is right, it is proper, it is necessary.

229 “I watched as he opened the sixth seal. There was a great earthquake. The sun turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair, the whole moon turned blood red, and the stars in the sky

fell to earth, as figs drop from a fig tree when shaken by a strong wind.”

Beatrice shivers, bringing her shawl tight around her. She wishes Essie were here. She

had slept in the tower safe in the big woman's protection. Deborah sees her sudden anxiety and

takes her hand tight, smiling with reassurance. Myriam, meanwhile, drops her Bible and has to

bend down to retrieve it.

“They sang a new hymn: "Worthy are you to receive the scroll and to break open its

seals, for you were slain and with your blood you purchased for God those from every tribe and

tongue, people and nation. You made them a kingdom and priests for our God, and they will

reign on earth." I looked again and heard the voices of many angels who surrounded the throne

and the living creatures and the elders. They were countless five in number, and they cried out in

a loud voice: "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches, wisdom and

strength, honor and glory and blessing." Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and

under the earth and in the sea, everything in the universe, cry out: "To the one who sits on the

throne and to the Lamb be blessing and honor, glory and might, forever and ever." The Word of

the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God.”

Then Father Keegan stands at the pulpit preaching away. His sermon has never been

better, it roars with fire, it ascends upwards to the heavens, and he feels inspired, as if he has

always been meant to say these words. His listeners are enraptured, held spellbound. The homily

continues on for minutes, hours, time has collapsed.

230 “Put your faith in Him who rules over heaven and earth! For they say that the Lamb will be your shepherd! And at the foot of that most holy throne, God will wipe away every tear from the eyes of those who know this truth!” Father Keegan roars. He wipes sweat from his brow, and

Ruth, with a flutter of her heart, thinks he has never been quite so handsome as he is in this moment, convulsing with passion for the Lord on High. “In the hardest of times, we are called not to stand alone, but to fall back on the foundation of our faith. Only with the Lord can we hope to prevail. In these times of trial, we are judged only by faith. The collapse hastens the resurrection. You should not feel despair. For the day of glory will come!”

*

Afternoon.

The tobacco smoke swirled through the room, thick as fog, reaching Deborah on the balcony. She pushed more fully into the green cushioned bench, bringing her scarf around her mouth and nose to help her breathe. Her heart was pounding, and she felt ill. She had already thrown up violently, leaving the chamber for a time to settle her stomach. The smell of sick pervaded the chamber; others hadn't made it outside before vomiting.

She caught Barak's eye, signaling for him to calm down with her hands. She told him, in their private sign language, that he was visibly angry. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She scanned the room, trying to get a sense of its feel to report back to her husband.

The shouting below had stopped, but the anger was pulpable, burrowing into Deborah's heart and crushing her. She was not accustomed to such strong emotions here, and she had to close her eyes for a moment to quiet her own panic.

231 There were no windows in the grand hall. It was dark and musty, mold working its way

through the varnished wood. She didn't know why they had decided to meet here instead of the

House of Lords—she thought theirs was the better room—but the Commons had become the de

facto chamber now, the last gasp of power for the nation. When first she had begun to sit in on

Parli, when Barak was a newly elected MP, the room felt too small to host so many bodies. Now

there were only some thirty remaining members, elected before the collapse and having voted

during the Second Migration to keep their powers indefinitely until the crisis passed. Former

cabinet secretaries, generals, judges, and even clerks filled in another twenty or so seats and had

been given voting powers, but the room felt overly large for this small assembly.

While the party system had been officially dismantled, the Conservatives still sat

together, Barak among them, facing the vestiges of the Labour Party across from them. The

disgust was thick from both sides, Deborah felt, but Labour was listening. They might

disapprove the PrimeMin's methods, but they were willing to hear her out. She wasn't sure how

to communicate this to Barak. He cast an eye up to her, and she indicated Labour's open-

mindedness. Another deep breath shook her husband. He snorted. She understood and mirrored

his repugnance; it was all she could do to stop herself from yelling damnation down on the whole

lot of them.

Athaliah had reigned as PrimeMin for nearly twenty years now, holding her power

through the political swings, through the upheavals, the Riots, the dissolution of the monarchy, and even through the Last Great Migration. She had been in power before Barak had thought to

run for office, and Deborah could not picture Parli without her. She sat defiant in the chair which

had once held the speaker, her wrinkles deep-set in the gas-lit hall. Her hair was dyed dirty blond

232 and cut short. She wore a robe of crimson trimmed in gold, and a heavy ruby necklace glittered at her throat.

Deborah had always seen her as their ally. Maybe that was the key to her power.

Everyone thought she was their ally.

“I again ask for any better solution than the one proposed,” she said. “I am offering our race a way to continue. I offer a way forward, progress, in the only venue available to us.”

There was silence for a time. For the Tories, it was a fuming silence, but Labour was thinking it all through. Deborah suspected, given their more moderate reactions, that certain members had been informed ahead of time, had had time to work through initial reactions. What with the current climate, she suspected time could diminish the moral outrage every person in the room should feel. Some eyes were too thoughtful, some expressions despondent rather than furious or horrified. Deborah signaled to Barak to break the silence, to remind the other side why it should be angry.

“You acted,” Barak said, his voice calm but still carrying the undertow of his revulsion,

“without authority, Athaliah! You conspired with the govboys. You overrode the democratic process—”

“What process? The last general election happened nearly eight years ago, Barak. You represent no one but yourself. This entire chamber is a sham,” Athaliah said. “I used my authority to save the human race. The government endows me with power over the armed forces, and I used that power. I've been working concurrently with the rest of the country, with Europe, even America. This is the best solution. The only solution anyone here has ever proposed.”

233 “This has been happening since the Second Migration?” This from Hannah, who sat next

to Barak and was the youngest person in the room. “You've run this program since the Second

Migration and didn't think to tell us?”

“The Crown started it as a trial out of desperation, and then—”

“And then you took over,” Barak said. “You knew you didn't have the votes for this ARC

Solution, Athaliah, so you didn't bother to tell us. You've actively concealed the truth from the

duly elected representatives of the people.”

“You knew. We all knew. We chose to ignore what was right in front of us,” Herodias

said softly.

“Nonsense!” Samson shouted. The big man sat to Barak's right and had been one of those who had vomited when Athaliah told them exactly what govgrub was made from. His face was red

with anger. “Absolute nonsense!”

The chamber descended into incoherent shouting once more, and it was only when

Herodias shot her gun three times in the air that the noise died down. Athaliah sat on her green

throne without a word, watching the members fight amongst themselves.

“I call for an immediate vote of no confidence! The Prime Minister has overstepped her

authority and has abused her power,” Barak said into the silence.

“Barak,” said Tom from across the aisle in a tone that clearly was meant to be reasonable,

“if the down-dwellers have all consented to the process—”

“They were not fully informed!”

“They were in—”

“With propaganda!” Barak shouted, losing his temper again. “Would you undergo the

process, Tom? Would you let your children do it?”

234 “I, well, no, Barak, I just think that.. .perhaps you are right to—”

“I would,” said Herodias. “Better than being here. I want to sign up. It just makes sense.”

“This woman has murdered millions of our fellow citizens!” Barak shouted. “This is murder. It isn't a grand policy, it isn't salvation, it isn't some way out, it is murder! Athaliah used the poorest among us as cattle. I ask for a vote of no confidence. Immediately.”

Deborah was nodding her head, proud of Barak, secure in his righteous anger. She crossed herself and held her prayer beads tightly.

“Have you had your say, Barak?” Athaliah asked. Her voice was weary but not regretful.

“If this chamber wishes to undertake such a vote, then by all means do it. But you can't stop the process now. The govboys know their duties. I have saved lives, which is more than anyone here can claim. We have found a way to preserve life. It's a voluntary program it isn't—”

Samson rose to his feet, “I have three children in the Undercity, Madame Prime Minister.

My wife left me and took them with her. My youngest son was five years old. I have four nieces and two nephews down there. A brother. Friends. And you tell me now that the government sworn to protect them—”

“There aren't anymore children coming. There's no more food. We evolve or we perish,”

Athaliah said. “We can leave behind the body, can enter into a simulated reality, preserving our minds and our souls...the world can't go backwards, we can only go forward. And this is the way forward for humanity. We are going to the next stage of e—"

Samson's silver pistol flashed as it swung from his hip. Athaliah's body guard pulled his pistol forward. Two shots rang out simultaneously in the chamber, their echoes ricocheting off the walls. Deborah screamed. The men and women below had leapt to their feet in alarm. People dived beneath the benches.

235 But Deborah looked down with her mouth wide, watched Samson fall and crumble to the

ground as Athaliah was thrown backwards, blood pooling from the red mark directly between her eyes. The PrimeMin sat on her throne, dead. And Parliament died with her.

* The echoing refrains of the hymn roll out from the organ. They recite together, their

voices all one. Deborah and Ruth know the words by heart, but Beatrice mouths along with

uncertainty, earning her a scowl from Sarah Jameson. Myriam helpfully shows her the printed

words, though she herself is reciting in Latin:

“I believe in one God,

the Father almighty,

Maker of heaven and earth,

of all things visible and invisible.

I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ,

the Only Begotten Son of God,

born of the Father before all ages.

God from God, Light from Light,

true God from true God,

begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father;

through him all things were made.

For us men and for our salvation

he came down from heaven,

and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary,

236 and became man.”

Beatrice stops pretending, only listening now to the voices. Barak's rings sure, Deborah looks upwards as she recites the words, and Ruth looks down with her head bowed. High above in the rafters, Essie watches Beatrice fold her hands and fall into silence.

“We pray for the leaders of the British Government; may they find strength in hard times.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

“We pray for those beneath the earth and hope they too will find God's grace.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

“We pray for all those here today and throughout our great country who have lost loved ones to the Undercity, to the moods, to despair.”

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

“Please bow your heads in silent prayer.”

Ruth prays for strength for the task she knows lies ahead, and she asks for forgiveness for the long years in which she did not believe. The truth stares back at her now. She prays for her

Nana Susan, whom she never understood. She prays for the stories, the books that sit in her room at home. And she prays for her daughters, that they might find peace.

Deborah thinks of Elena, and her tears run down her cheeks. She thinks of Ruth, her dear niece taken in to sin. With all she is, she prays Elena will find her daughter. Her eyes fall to

Beatrice, to her flat stomach, and she prays for her son, for the child resting there, prays that he will make it alive and safe into the world.

Beatrice prays for her daughter too, in her own way. She doesn't really believe much in prayer, but she thinks on a lot in the silence with the soft organ music rolling across the Nave.

237 She hopes she will be worthy of the child growing inside of her. She thinks of her aunts. She sends her energy out to sweet Auntie Becca, to Aunt Dinah and her scrumptious frybread, to her strict Aunt Tamar. She thinks of her mother, lost to the orgies of SAW somewhere in Arizona, and she prays for the woman who abandoned her long ago.

“All things are possible through you, Lord, and through your son Jesus Christ.”

“Amen.”

*

Evening.

At any given time, Ruth had three photographs in her pockets:

First Photograph: Ruth and her brother Jonathan. They are children, sitting on the London

Eye for the first time. He has one hand clutched tight around a mobile phone. She has a red- gloved hand in his other. Nana Susan sits on Ruth's right, Abuelita María on Jonathan's left, and

Mamá is next to their abuela. The day is rainy: a London fall. All their hair blows back into the metal seat like dandelion wisps.

It was the only picture she has of all five together in which they are smiling. Their father had been away on business that day.

Second Photograph: A park bench in St James with Ruth's three daughters. Her eldest,

María, is a year from death at ten and already has grown thin with the mysterious illness which will turn her old before her time, turn her into an invalid who cannot leave her bed and then, in time, cannot breathe without a respirator. An early case. The beginning of the end. But then they thought it was only a flu. María has the grey owl eyes of Nana Susan and they gleam with the same otherworldly distance, as if already, on this day, María is thinking of heaven. María's hand

238 is on the broad shoulders of an eight-year-old Elena. Her middle daughter smiles at the camera, showing her pink tongue. There are streaks of dirt across her face and her skin is still summer­ dark. She is a picture of health, her cheeks chubby, her eyes impish, grounded in a way the women of her family rarely are. She is perhaps, Ruth allows, the most like Ruth herself. Seven - year-old Deborah sits on the ground at the foot of the bench and stares up at her sisters with a look of sweet devotion. Her face is the most beautiful of the three, delicate and doll-like, oddly serious for a child. She holds her favorite doll, Lucy, under one arm protectively.

Third Photograph: Elena and Deborah grown up, sitting on a beige couch with their husbands on either side. Michel is looking at Elena rather than the camera and has on a small smile, Barak has a hand on Deborah's shoulder and another protectively over her tummy where a baby rests temporarily. Between Elena and Deborah is Elena's daughter, Little Ruth, aged seven.

Little Ruth who looks so very much like María. Little Ruth with her grey stormy eyes. Her skin pale to the point of transparency. Thin. They had thought she would die, Little Ruth. So few girls were surviving then.

Ruth thought of these three pictures as she stood pensively on the church steps, watching the sun set over the buildings high above her. She felt extraordinarily small, part of a larger story she no longer fully understood. She wanted desperately to go home to her books, but she knew she had been called on to perform this dreadful task first. Never had she asked for such an important role. She had been contented to be an observer, not a heroine. Her new responsibility hung heavy around her heart.

Neither of her living daughters had come back to the church. Deborah presumably was still at Parli, but she had not radioed in. And Elena, well, Ruth had not the faintest notion where her middle daughter was now. Essie and Beatrice had merely said that she had found a way into

239 the Undercity. Deborah had been devastated, but Ruth felt only numbness. She was not sure if she had enough inside of her to lose more.

The Lord's Day was making its way to a close with a red sunset. She thought she saw, staring out from the lane opposite the church, a pair of shining golden eyes.

She blinked and the form faded. She had seen the woman with her golden eyes everywhere since the roof. She had seen the outline of the dragon in the clouds, in the shape of the stars, in the patterns in the marble in the church.

Ruth had never believed in signs, but she did now. She knew now that her Nana Susan had been right; they lived in a world of angels and demons. Good and evil were more than theoretical concepts. She had looked into the face of the devil and survived.

Behind her, the church began to settle for the night. She waited for Beatrice, who she knew would take out the chamber pot before it got dark. The girl was always obsessed with cleanliness. She had needed to get her away from Essie, who watched her every move around the girl, but the big woman had slunk off somewhere, perhaps she had found more alcohol.

Dusk was falling and the sunset had faded to nearly nothing when Beatrice finally appeared on the steps, carrying her chamber pot out. The dog trailed her, wagging a tail happily, but lowering her ears at Ruth and growling. Beatrice paused. She saw Ruth and veered left.

Ruth let her take the chamber pot to the sewer and dump it. Let her walk back up the stairs.

Let her stoop and pat the dog with a smile.

“Beatrice,” she said when the maid reached her.

Beatrice set down the chamber pot and stood in front of Ruth, her arms crossed around her perfect little breasts.

“We need to talk about the child growing inside of you,” Ruth said.

240 The girl said nothing, just insolently stared at her.

“The spawn in your womb.”

“Look Ruth,” Beatrice said, and Ruth saw her actually roll her eyes. “Deborah wanted this. She asked me to do it. She wanted a kid, and this was the only way she could get one. Go talk to her, okay? We had a deal.”

“You dare, you dare to say such nonsense about my daughter—”

“That's the truth!” Beatrice said to her, her little face twisting with rage. In the fading light, the girl looked like a wraith, a creature from the land of the dead come back to haunt the living.

Ruth stood her ground, “After everything you have done, you dare speak words of so- called ‘truth' on the steps of God's church. You dare wear those prayer beads around your neck.

You dare to sing at service this morning!” She lost her words in rage.

“And what about Matt?” the girl said. She had not backed down but rather stepped closer to Ruth, her fury batting up against Ruth's own.

“Excuse me?”

“What about Matt? Have you even cried for him? Have you thought about him at all?

Don't you even feel.. .You pushed him off that roof—”

Ruth slapped her hard across the face. Shocked, the girl fell silent. “You sniveling little whore. You know what happened that night. You know what you are! Bride of the dragon. Bride of the devil himself!”

“What are you talking about?!”

241 “That child inside of you is a demon. You are carrying the false prophet! I know it.

Didn't you listen to the scripture read in Mass today? Or can such words not reach your ears? I know you know the truth,” Ruth said with deadly calm.

Beatrice was gaping her mouth in mock innocence. The anger in her eyes was mixed with puzzlement, but Ruth could see the dawning light of knowledge underneath. The girl was shaking her head, but her heart knew her sin. Ruth hated her as she never had before.

“I tried to kill it,” Ruth said. “Even before I knew what it was, I knew I had to kill it.”

The girl's hands had reached around her belly protectively. She was looking up at Ruth with wide eyes.

“If you had just drank your tea, it would be dead by now.”

“You tried to kill my daughter?” Beatrice said, and her voice was shaking with rage now.

“I tried to save my daughter from devastation! And then I learned the truth. That isn't

Barak's baby inside of you, I would it was! I wish you were carrying the bastard child of my son­ in-law, you little whore!”

Ruth lunged at Beatrice, not sure what she wanted to do but that she wanted to hurt her.

But then she felt a stabbing pain in her hand. The fiendish dog had sunk its teeth into her palm and was growling. She felt pain as she never had before. She clawed at the beast, pulling away sharply. The dog bit her leg. She tried to kick it off. She screamed bloody murder.

Beatrice was backing away down the stairs, a hand raised to her mouth. The dog wouldn't let go of Ruth. She kicked hard, and it flew down the stairs with a yelp. Ruth could feel the blood making its way down from her knee.

“Lyra, Lyra,” Beatrice was kneeling in front of the mutt. The creature was whimpering.

242 Ruth was descending the steps, ignoring the pain. From the ground, Beatrice saw her. The girl pulled the pistol Deborah had given her from her waist and pointed it firmly at Ruth's heart.

“You just stay away from me,” the girl said. “And you stay away from my dog.” The black creature was raising itself up, shaking its head. It seemed unhurt. “And you damn well better stay away from my kid.”

Beatrice kept backing down the steps, her gun held to cover her passage.

“You carry evil inside of you, child,” Ruth said.

Beatrice said nothing. When she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned, and started to walk away from the church with the dog following in her wake.

“You will bring the end upon us all!”

But Beatrice didn't turn around, didn't look back, didn't pause. The prideful child held her head high and fled the safety of the church, the hell-spawn she carried still safe in her womb, she went out from God's grace into London's gathering night.

* Myriam, Beatrice, Deborah, Barak, and Ruth kneel at the altar together. Beatrice is trembling, uncomfortable, but Deborah has dragged her forward. Ruth trembles too, but hers is a deep rage at the young girl who dares present herself as pure. Deborah feels the fear and anger radiating from either side and doesn't understand either.

“The Body of Christ,” Father Keegan says, handing Deborah the blessed bread. She takes it on her tongue and smiles up at the priest.

“Amen.”

The cup of wine glitters in the candle lights, “The Blood of Christ.”

243 “Amen.”

When Father Keegan approaches Beatrice, he stumbles and the wine spills red across the floor. He recovers quickly and hands the young girl the remainder. The bread and the wine taste like ashes in her mouth.

Ruth feels a stab of triumph, watching the maid suffer. Deborah pats her shoulder reassuringly. Myriam squeezes her hand, “Sometimes it happens, yes?”

But the wine has crossed the stone floor to stain Beatrice's knees crimson.

“Amen.”

As Father Keegan gives Myriam the body and blood of Christ, Deborah stares at the spot to Myriam's left where Elena should be.

* Night.

Elena and Ahab were in the tunnels again. Her lantern made it look as if there were patterns dancing across the dark walls. She thought of snakes coiling and uncoiling. It smelled like incense in here. She could definitely smell sage. She knelt and saw burnt herbs scattered across the tunnel floor.

Her feet were sore and tired. She could feel them swelling inside her boots. She pulled

Michel's coat tighter around her, trying to smell his long-gone scent in the seams. The tunnels were cold, but she thought this was probably the result of her tiredness rather than the temperature. She kept shivering, as she did whenever she did not get a full night's sleep.

She had not found Ruth in Sheol. The people waiting to plug in there were hostile, screaming obscenities at her. Almost all of them were on moods. The town was too old for Ruth,

244 almost everyone was over thirty. Ahab had tried to tell her as much. Sheol had become a refuge for the generation between hers and his.

She still had searched every face, even the two govgals who spat at her. A man had grabbed her from behind and palmed one of her breasts, and she had shot him in the foot.

After that, a small mob had driven them out of that Tent City. Guns were, apparently, not allowed underground unless you were a govboy. And everyone knew that men would be men underground.

“You know that this was a fool's errand, right?” Ahab said softly. He was more than anxious to get to Naraka, which was now Elena's last hope. She knew that her side quest had wasted his time. But she also knew that once he got to his sister, he had no reason to take her anywhere else. Elena had thought at first that she would be able to navigate the tunnels on her own. She had taken the trains when they had run in her youth.

But it became clear to her very quickly that she had no hope to find her way through the

Underground without a guide.

Everything she had done in the past twenty-four hours had been cruel and selfish.

She couldn't believe she had pulled a gun on kids. On Beatrice, who she knew and liked.

On Ahab, who was just a boy. She'd had a moment of madness. Seeing those bodies, realizing what govgrub was, knowing what would happen to her daughter, it was too much. She still couldn't process the knowledge that was now hers.

Shock and horror could explain away her reaction in the govgrub station, but it couldn't justify how she had treated Ahab since. Time was of the essence, and if he did not get to his sister, it would be her fault.

245 “When we were kids,” Ahab said. “Jez and I would play with dolls, right? We had these mad stories, epic quests and stuff, all with our toys. There was a stuffed cat we had named Peter who ruled over all the other toys. It took a whole army to bring him down. But he always was beaten. That was the best part about it, I think,” Ahab said.

“When she was little, Ruth would climb anything and everything. She got up this oak tree once outside the Estate. We kept telling her she was climbing too high, but she never listened to anything. She kept right on climbing until the branches thinned out, and then they broke. She went falling down, and I caught her, just barely. And she laughed. Just laughed. And then she tried to do it again!”

Ahab laughed, “Jez isn't like that. Her girlfriend is though.”

“She's seeing someone?”

“Yeah, Orp. She's an adventurous girl. I like her, though I'm never sure if she likes me!”

They walked in silence for a long time, Elena trying to ignore the encroaching tiredness and her increasingly sore body. She had walked all across London since this time yesterday, had crisscrossed miles. That she hadn't slept didn't help either. Neither did the fact that she had spent several days trapped in that horrible hospital.

She was running on pure and sheer adrenaline.

“We'll come in right through the Dens, so be careful. We don't want to get pulled in accidentally.”

Ahab had told her this at each of the towns they had come to. It had been the most disorienting part of the trip, particularly in Niflheim, where just making it out of the crowded tunnels was mayhem. Elena had tried to search the crowds packed so tightly against each other,

246 had asked questions to every person she saw, but she knew it was possible that Ruth had simply

slipped past her in the pandemonium. There were so many people there!

She couldn't think like that.

She believed, even if it was irrational, that somehow she would be led to her daughter.

God would help her if no one else would. Somehow, she knew, in her bones, that Ruth had not

been taken into the Dens yet. She was still alive, still safe, and Elena had not just walked right by

her in Niflheim. She was not that girl dyed orange with green hair who was listening to music

Ruth had liked. She was not the girl covered in piercings who was the right shape and had the

right nose, but who spoke with the wrong voice. When she saw her daughter, she would be sure.

She would know.

The skeleton girl with silver eyes. That's how Dad had described her. She searched for

this description, telling herself that Ruth had not changed her appearance since.

“How far are we?”

“Ten minutes? We're close.”

They moved faster, as fast as their tired legs could carry them. As they drew nearer and passed a series of empty subway trains, Ahab began to look uneasy.

“What?”

“Shouldn't we hear it by now?” Ahab said.

They both stood still, listening.

Long before they had reached Niflheim or Sheol, they had heard the people shouting and

laughing and the sound of virt sellers. They had heard the crowds in the Dens awaiting their time

to plug in.

But it was silent in the tunnel now.

247 “Maybe we aren't as close as you think?” Elena said softly.

But Ahab was shaking his head worriedly.

The tunnel was opening up, as it had done when they approached the other two towns.

But, unlike Niflheim and Sheol, there weren't people being pushed into the tunnel. They didn't see people at all.

“No,” Ahab whispered. “No.”

They were in the Dens. A sign hung in the middle of the empty stalls welcoming them to

Naraka. Elena had not been able to see any such signs anywhere else because of all the people.

But there were no people here.

The stalls were empty except for rubbish left on the floor. There were no people queuing, no people selling, no government officials or govboys.

They walked into the Dens. The computers were running, the lights dancing in the massive machine that was the Virtual Network, but there was no one here.

Then, a woman about thirty with pink bubblegum hair came from around the corner.

“Are you here to plug in for ARCs?” asked the woman.

They looked at her, both silent.

“Naraka has already been processed,” said the woman. “You can go to Niflheim, or

Sheol? Or directly to BritGov. They'll be processing everyone there soon.”

Elena refused to believe it. She backed away from the woman, shaking her head, and then she ran from the Dens.

She came to the abandoned tents, the rubbish everywhere. There was a train made out of pots and pans. She nearly tripped over a feather hat. She ran passed the turnstile. She searched the

Red Tents amidst the broken bottles, the mood patches, the lubricants and sex toys.

248 “I can't believe it,” Ahab whispered, following her.

Elena searched again and again, but the truth was plain to her.

Naraka was empty as the grave.

*

Father Keegan offers a final prayer, a final blessing, and then he disperses his flock. “Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God!”

And the fellowship ends.

249 Ashes to Ashes

Three hours before the bombs begin to fall on upper London, Elena loses Ahab somewhere in the crowds of Niflheim. The walk from Naraka had been long and silent. It reeked of desperation.

Now, she has reached the point of tiredness beyond even adrenaline. Her hands are dirty and bloody from the times she has fallen. Her body shivers with desperate cold. Her head aches, and her eyes are heavy and pained. She wants, desperately wants, Michel. The crowd pushes her left and right, throwing her hard into the concrete wall. She tastes blood in her mouth. There is a dull throbbing on her left arm.

The torch she carried has extinguished. She dropped it in the tunnels as she and Ahab made their way back here. She can barely see in the dim underground light. The implants that allow down-dwellers to pass through this dark as if it were day do not grace her eyes.

She crouches down in the filthy tunnels, leaning her head against the wall. Dark forms move above her, turning from individuals to a mass of shadows. She sees the bobbing of a bright red head of hair. Her voice croaks out Ahab's name. But the fire-hair disappears into the crowd.

A man trips over her and kicks her hard in response, “Get outta my way!” he shouts. He spits at her. She clutches her side and slinks closer to the wall. Her hand rises to wipe away the spittle in a daze.

It smells putrid in here. She feels as if the walls are closing in around her. The open air could revive her, just a moment above the ground, but she is trapped in this vast crowd under the earth.

250 She needs to close her eyes. Her lashes blink of their own accord. She tries pinching herself, but she can hardly feel it anymore. The ache from the place the man kicked her has already faded to nothing. Numbness invades her.

Her mind winds backwards. She thinks of her first date with Michel. They sat in a cafe, when there were still cafes. He bought her apple pie and teased her when she dropped some on her shirt. His eyes were so gentle, calm stormy grey. He'd been shy, awkward, nothing like the confident student she went to class with week after week. She wonders now if she loved him even then.

Someone is bending over her. The face is in shadow, and she cannot make it out. Then a hand is reaching forward, pulling her to her feet.

“I'll help you, it's alright 'n alright.”

She leans on the broad shoulders of her unseen helper, stumbling forward, her teeth chattering. He smells a bit like peppermint, the man helping her. Mint was Michel's favorite plant. She would tend her garden, and he would sit and play guitar smiling that cheeky smile.

“My daughter,” she mumbles.

“Yes, yes,” says the man transporting her.

Her mind turns to Ruth as a baby, such a difficult baby she had been! Always crying and

spitting up food. Michel would rock her to sleep, sing to her, and always he was so good and kind. And their Ruth, stubborn but sure. Elena remembers temper tantrums when she stood at the top of the stairs, held her breath until she turned blue, and then would cascade backwards, Elena

scrambling to catch her. But Ruth could be generous too. She remembers a day when her daughter promised that when Elena was old, she would carry her. She remembers when Ruth used to tickle her belly. Kiss her nose.

251 The crowds seem to have thinned somewhat. Elena's helper is still walking her forward.

The light changes. It is now the harsh white electric light that she remembers from the terrible place where the corpses were piled high around her. She blinks in the light, trying to adjust. There is a woman in front of her with green hair. The man who helped her is a govboy, his skin blue and white. His eyes black and empty.

“It's time to plug on in, Misses,” says the govboy gently. “It's your turn now.”

He sits her down on a metal table in front of the woman with the green hair. The table is cold beneath her. It feels hard on her sore bottom. She wants to lie on it and sleep.

“I'm looking for my daughter,” Elena hears herself saying. There's a ringing in her ears, and her voice feels distant and alien to her.

“I'm sure you'll find her in Virt,” says the green-haired woman. “Easy to get separated in that crowd. But we're all going to the same place now.”

“I'm looking for my daughter,” Elena repeats, her words slurring. It is very important that this woman understands. That this woman helps her find Ruth.

The green-haired woman pats her hand reassuringly, “Now just lay back, my dear. This will be painless. Everything will be alright soon.”

“Everything will be alright?”

“Yes.”

Just before she leaves one world for another, Elena is granted a vision that feels as real to her as the ground beneath her feet:

Ruth wears a long black coat Elena has never seen before. Her blood red hair is wet as if she has just taken a shower. The silver contacts in Ruth's eyes flash with the soft morning light.

Those beautiful eyes! They are unnaturally large with smeared make-up, her lashes long with

252 mascara, her face pale. Ruth looks more like her father now than she had as an infant. Where are

Elena's dark eyes and copper skin? Where are Elena's high cheekbones and round nose? This young woman could be any of the myriad of youth remaking themselves in a fallen world. But

Ruth isn't a woman. She is a girl. She is Elena's child, her daughter, her life.

Elena reaches out to this ghost of her daughter, but Ruth doesn't appear to see her. Elena

tries to speak but finds herself mute. She throws her arms around her daughter, but her body

passes right through the younger woman's form.

Elena steps back and gazes at her:

Ruth is a baby, spitting up peas and carrots and throwing food across the carpet. Ruth is

three and convinced that the Loch Ness Monster lives in her bathtub. Ruth is seven and reading a

book aloud to Elena, stopping every page to perform the words. Ruth is nine, telling Elena she

thinks she is dying because her pee has stained her knickers red. Ruth is eleven, riding a horse by

the river bank with her chestnut hair flowing in the summer sun. Ruth is thirteen, chewing gum

and popping it loudly every time Father Keegan says the word “Jesus” in his sermon. Ruth is

sixteen, cooking dinner while dancing to music only she can hear.

“Come with me,” Elena says to her daughter. She reaches out her hand and prays as she

has never prayed before.

Ruth is eighteen, shaking her head as if to rid herself of a fly. Elena feels herself rising.

She watches through tear-filled eyes as Ruth walks confidently away from her.

*

The first bomb lands with an echoing boom that shakes all of upper London, but the

Cathedral is far enough away that not everyone wakes.

253 “What is that?” Ruth hears someone say sleepily from the Nave.

“Thunder, yes?” Myriam whispers beside her with a yawn.

She has been awake for hours, the pain in her leg a dull but constant throb. Myriam dressed the wound, but Ruth thinks it is infected, that it will take her leg from her. She wants hallelujah, wants the visions to guide her forward. She expects no more grace, however; she has failed in the task given to her.

“Just thunder,” Ruth says. The Cathedral sleeps on, the vast space full of whispers. Ruth thinks she sees a form standing still at the place where the Lady Chapel meets the Nave, but she blinks until the form clears away. Her visions, if they are visions, mean nothing now.

She cannot sleep, and so she is still awake when the second bomb falls.

This bomb is much closer to them, and the impact shakes the church. Several people scream, there's another bang, this from the Nave. The lights are being lit. Myriam has turned on their oil lamp. In the faded light, her features turn ghostly, and, for the first time, Ruth thinks

Myriam looks properly old.

“Hello? What is happening?”

Ruth pulls herself upright, holding to the side of the Lady Chapel so as to avoid putting weight on her leg. She drops her hand to her side and feels a sharp pain; she has forgotten her injured palm. Now it bleeds fresh due to her carelessness.

One of the chandeliers has fallen in the Nave. No one is hurt, but it looks like a near miss.

Glass scatters across the floor and one of the few remaining pews is damaged.

David Keegan is coming out of the vestry dressed in a long white shirt. Ibrahim Alim and his wife are coming from a side chapel, their pretty son following. Sleepy-eyed parishioners talk in low murmurs.

254 Then they here a bang and running footsteps.

Sarah Jameson comes galloping into the Nave. Her hair is flying free from its tie. Ruth takes in the woman's flushed face and wide eyes.

“The stars are falling from the sky!”

“What?”

“The stars!” And Sarah collapses into a dead faint just as the third bomb falls and the building shakes again.

Myriam is bending over Sarah, but Ruth moves away from her. She makes her way towards the entrance to the tower, ignoring the sharp pain in her leg, ignoring the throbbing pain of her hand, ignoring David telling her to slow down. She pushes up the steps in a daze, climbing up and up the endless staircase, David Keegan trailing her, holding out a hand when she stumbles.

The fourth bomb falls when they reach the top of the tower. They see it land somewhere near Westminster. Some building goes up in a sphere of fire, the flames so enormous that they can see them from here. To the east and the south, they see smoke rising into the dark night.

“Where are they even coming from?” the priest says, looking to the dark skies. His voice catches, and Ruth thinks of his sermon the morning before, his passion and fire.

“Does it matter?” Ruth asks.

They look at each other on the top of the tower, both with tired old eyes. Then, they start the journey back down to the Nave. Ruth radios Deborah as she climbs down, but her daughter doesn't pick up. She radios Elena but receives no answer. Her leg hurts more than it did before.

She sees blood pooling through the careful bandages.

255 When they reach the Nave, Myriam and Rachel are helping to usher all the children down into the crypt. People are pouring into the church from the outlying buildings, their eyes terrified.

The radio has turned to static.

The fifth bomb falls, throwing Ruth downwards to land hard on her leg.

She screams in agony, and Myriam is at her side. “Hush now, hush.”

Tears well up in her eyes, and the Nave blurs.

She has failed. She has failed as one chosen to fulfill God's plan. Failed in her role as a mother three times over. Failed as a wife. Failed as a daughter. As a granddaughter. Her life has been only failure.

She tastes the poison of her realization. It brings her a certain degree of clarity. Her pain ebbs in the face of her bitter epiphany. And, suddenly, there is only one place she wants to be.

Ruth has tried to live in the world. But this was never where she belonged.

“Ruth?”

She forces herself to stand, putting all the weight on to her right leg. She feels dizzy, but her thoughts have crystalized and grown firm.

“Ruth, where are you going?”

She walks out of the Nave, passing all of the many people making their way into the church, but she is pushing against them, heading out, down the steps, on to the courtyard. Her nightgown billows out to her bare ankles. It is warm, but not warm enough for the cold night.

“Ruth, this is mad, yes?”

With another deep breath, she turns her feet to the west. She can smell sulfur in the air.

Her eyes hurt, and she blinks rapidly. The city looks as it has looked since the collapse. Nothing would indicate that they are under attack.

256 Ruth!

“I am going to the books,” she says, trying to throw Myriam off. The other woman looks at her aghast, her face looking old again in the faint light of the stars above.

Another bomb falls, but it is far away. She walks with confidence now down the road, walks through the wilderness of London. Her leg hurts with every step. She watches blood drops falling from her palm.

“We should take shelter, yes?” Myriam shouts at her, trailing in her wake.

“I am going to my books,” Ruth says again.

Myriam looks at her with begging eyes. Her dainty hands close on Ruth's arm, but she shakes her off. She turns away from those grey eyes and keeps walking forward. They are nearly halfway now.

“Alexandria.. .can it not wait, yes?”

Myriam never really understood, she thinks. No one ever really understood.

She walks on, and Myriam follows her. The path is as it always is. The houses are turning to white sandstone. She turns down Chester and sees the dark spot that is the gardens in the distance. They are only a block away. She can see her beloved home, the place that she commandeered for its library. Soon, she will return to her books.

When the bomb falls on her home, she is less than a block away.

The force of the explosion knocks her and Myriam backwards.

Ruth lets out a protracted scream. Myriam tries and fails to hold her, but her fate is to break away, to run up the rest of the street, the pain of her leg forgotten. It is her lot to enter the crumbling building, fighting the smoke and flames. She coughs and sputters, her eyes burning in the sudden gloom. The staircase already has turned charred black and part of it collapses as she

257 tries to ascend. She sees a figure in a dark cloak at the top of the stairs. A woman with glowing golden eyes. The hallelujah prophets smiles.

“The books!”

Ruth's foot falls through a disintegrating step, her ankle twisting, but she pushes on, pushes past the pain and the smoke and engulfing fire.

She never reaches her parlor.

She dies from oxygen deprivation before the flames consume her. The last part of her to turn to ash are Little Maria's prayer beads around her neck.

*

“Dear God in heaven!” Deborah says, crossing herself. The ceiling rumbles fiercely as another bomb falls, and the generator has gone out. It is pitch dark in the crypt turned bunker.

She falls back against the box filled with supplies, feeling her way to Barak's hand. He squeezes hers reassuringly.

“Got a light somewhere,” he says.

The hand leaves hers, and she sits alone in the darkness, trembling. She hears her husband stumbling around, sees a flash as he strikes a match. Then his face appears in the darkness, the light illuminating it from the lantern beneath him. The familiar features look foreign to her until he sets the light down between them.

The shelter is empty but for her and Barak. The radio sitting beside her is tuned to perpetual static. No one is broadcasting. They have tried to reach the Cathedral, Elena, Barak's fellow MPs. Nothing. No one has tried to get into this bunker hidden away under St. Martin-in-

258 the-Fields Church. They could be the very last two people on God's green earth now for all

Deborah knows.

In the chaos that broke in the fall of Parli, the various members of government had initially tried to pull the union back together. But then they saw the govboys. The young men dyed red, white, and blue looked like a flag marching towards Parli. Their faces were set, and they were singing out songs, their guns at the ready.

“Forced processing,” Hannah whispered. “That's what they're coming for, isn't it?”

Herodias had only nodded. She and several others planned to give themselves over to the mob, to the process. They would abandon their bodies for VirtNet.

“No use fighting it,” Tom had said, wavering back and forth, doubting himself and asking

Barak to confirm his views. “We can't fight it, can we?”

Deborah, Barak, and Hannah had all descended down into the tunnels under Parli.

Several other survivors of the shoot-out in the Commons came with them. While Hannah had wanted to go to the bunker under the Thames, and the others had followed her, Barak thought it best to go somewhere unexpected. “Anything Athaliah knew about, the govboys know about,” he had reasoned. “So, let's go to a place she didn't know.”

The church had built this bunker during the Riots, and it had been intentionally kept secret from BritGov in case the power structure ever turned against the religious. They had come here to lie low for a time, to wait out the forced processing, and they had therefore been safe when the bombs started to fall.

Their shelter had once been a crypt. Raised stone structures hold bodies, and carved names marked the places where the dead rest beneath them. It smells of dirt and stone. Deborah never liked places like these. The Undercity has never appealed to her in part because she

259 despises the dark and the enclosed. It makes her feel claustrophobic. The dim light doesn't help.

She had been basking in the privilege of white electric light from the generator.

“How long will it last?” Deborah whispers as another bomb shakes the stone walls.

“Who knows?” Barak says. “God knows who sent these bombs or how. Do you think there were some planes stored away somewhere? Or are these missiles?”

Deborah shakes her head.

“We have enough supplies for a month.”

“Half of the food is.it's.. govgrub.”

“Yes,” Barak says.

“I won't.I.. won't ever again,” Deborah stops and shudders.

Barak looks at her over the lantern, his brows furrowed. She can't read his expression.

“Beatrice is safe in the church,” Deborah says at last. “Our baby, he'll be safe.”

“Deborah.”

“He'll be safe,” she says firmly. She has to believe that the girl is in another crypt with

Father Keegan to keep her safe. Mother is there looking after her. And Myriam and Essie.

Perhaps Elena has come back with Ruth. All of them are in the church, in the crypt, safe. Even

Sarah Jameson and Imam Alim. The priest, the rabbi, and the imam are playing their silly card game while the others look on in consternation. The imam manages to procure some ridiculous black-market item for her dear niece, who is on her knees praying, begging for forgiveness.

Elena prays with her. Mother reads a book and perhaps catches Elena's eyes. They won't forgive each other quite yet but they will soon.

260 And Beatrice, dear sweet Beatrice, sits safe on a straw pad, eating the very best of food

available to make the son inside of her strong. She is smiling, perhaps playing chess with Essie, who guards her.

Deborah can see it all in her mind. It is all waiting for her at the Cathedral.

She blinks, and the vision fades. Barak is staring at her. He just looks at her for the

longest time in silence, looking at her as if he is measuring her up. The musky smell of the

bunker overpowers her. Deborah shifts uncomfortably. She drops her husband's eyes, looking

instead at her hands. They aren't beautiful hands, not anymore. Green veins run through them, and cracks and wrinkles break their smooth surface.

“I didn't want this,” Barak says suddenly.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Deborah shakes her head. Her eyes grow hot with the threat of tears, but she says

nothing. They don't look at each other. She fumbles with her radio again, but only static comes

from it.

“This whole thing with the girl, it’s.. .it’s disgusting.”

“It isn't,” she can herself saying firmly. Her heart pounds in her ears.

“Sure.”

“I thought you understood, indeed, husband, I thought you understood how I felt when

I—”

“No.”

“I, I thought that—”

261 “But you never really bothered to find out, did you?” and his voice is dismissive, curt.

“It's always about you.”

It brings Deborah into silence. The tears spill from her eyes, and she tries to wipe them without Barak noticing, afraid that he will find her emotions silly or irrational or confirmation of his accusation. She wishes her face wouldn't turn so red when she cries. She wishes that her tears will stop, but they spill forth from her like a leak.

“You know, I always thought that you had something special. You know? I thought, she can help me to power. She can be my equal. But you never really wanted that, did you Debs?”

“Of course, indeed, I think, Barak, that you are...I always want to be, indeed, to fulfill the purpose that God put me here for and to be for you, to be for you the very best wife,” she tries to say, stumbling over her words. The tears won't stop from her eyes. “Our son, he will be so beautiful, indeed, I have seen him in my dreams for so long and he will be—”

Deborah stops. She can hear something. It sounds like stone grinding against stone. Barak has risen to his feet. He reaches for her and pulls her upright, pulls her so she is slightly behind him. They look around the chamber trying to trace the sound. Both have their pistols out and ready. She covers his back, he covers hers.

Deborah sees it first and tugs Barak around, pointing in a silent scream.

One of the grave stones is moving, it shifts back and forth, the stone grinding against the floor. They stand side by side, both their guns pointed firmly at the movement.

The stone comes free and it shifts to the left. From the floor rises a hand, then the top of a head, then a full torso. The head is dyed red with white stripes. It is a govboy.

Deborah doesn't know if she or Barak shoots first.

262 The red head explodes, and they hear shouts coming from beneath them. The hand twitches on the ground, and then the body is being pulled backwards. Deborah trembles, but her gun stays high and ready. She glances at Barak and he points to her, his jaw set. She will take the next shot.

Their pistols have six rounds each. They don't have any more bullets; the church refused to stock weapons or ammunition on principle.

Someone has pulled the body fully into the hole. They hear muttering from under the grave. Then shots ring straight up from the hole into the air.

“Surrender!” shouts a govboy under the ground. “Surrender to processin'! Come join us in eternity!”

“Not a chance,” Barak says. “We outnumber you. And we have plenty of weapons.”

He is looking to the door that leads above ground. It will take at least a minute to undo the complicated lock mechanism. Deborah nods to him, her gun still pointed at the grave.

Then they hear scrapping again, stone against stone, coming from their left. Barak spins to face it. Deborah keeps her gun on the first hole. But she can see in her periphery another gravestone rising. She takes a deep breath. Her heart will break her ribs, indeed!

Another govboy rises from the grave she covers. She waits until his torso appears and then shoots. The gun shot echoes through the crypt and nearly covers up the scraping of stone as another govboy rises from her right. Barak is shooting on the left. Deborah spins to hit the right, but then a shot rings from the original grave, catching her in the shoulder. She screams with pain.

“Surrender!”

263 Three govboys are rising. Deborah shoots one in the chest and he falls down smiling a dreadful smile, his black eyes glittering with the gold of hallelujah. Another sound of scraping stone.

“Drop your guns!”

They are back to back now, both covering two holes. Deborah has three shots left. Her shoulder screams with pain and her vision has narrowed to a flash of red and a flash of blue. She can feel Barak against her back, and he is shaking. She is leaning against him to stand upright.

“I said, drop them.”

Their pistols clatter to the floor. She feels Barak raise his hands behind her. She cannot raise her own for pain.

“Just kill them,” one of the govboys is saying. “They went 'n killed Herod 'n Golly.”

“No, no, take them to Virt,” says another. “Plug them on in, those are our orders, precise.”

“You're a-comin' wi' us, miss 'n sir.”

“We go to glory! We go to eternity! We go to greater story! We go to clarity!”

“Oh, dear God,” Deborah says. Barak turns, and she falls. He catches her before she hits the ground. The pistol on the floor shines brightly. She looks up at her husband, but his eyes look as lost as she feels. He shakes his head no. There are too many.

God will protect me, she thinks, and she believes it as she has never believed before. She believes.

She forces herself upright, fighting the pain in her shoulder. Barak is applying pressure there and helping to hold her steady.

264 “Come wi' us to the world beneath!” a govboy shouts, pointing his gun at her and Barak.

They walk forward.

Deborah thinks again of the Cathedral, she tries to picture her happy scene, but it has blurred in her eyes, moved some place beyond her retrieval. There is only this moment, her pain,

Barak steady around her, and the long march down into the darkness below.

*

Bea finds herself lost midway through the night. The city is bright as day with fire now.

Ash falls from the sky, and she can smell nothing but smoke. Everything has turned to grey.

The bombs have come and gone all night as she and Lyra have wandered through the trees and cobblestone and steel. She passes a statue covered in green vines turned grey with ash. Cars like hills flank her, looted shops form caves to her right and left, and she nearly steps in an animal trap but for Lyra's barking.

Now she walks and walks towards the river. The endless sojourn through the dead carcass of the burning city has been an eternity. Nothing exists but this. She scrambles through the empty valleys that once were streets, trips over tree roots in the dark. She coughs and her eyes burn, and it is like walking through thick grey fog. Touching the ash piling on the ground, her breath comes in sharp. The ash cuts her hands.

Lyra barks at her, licks her hand of blood, tries to lead her forward.

The sky is on fire. Buildings are infernos of orange and red. She can hardly see anything now, her eyes smart with the ashes they have swallowed. Her throat burns. Falling to her knees, trying to breathe, her will nearly breaks.

265 She thinks of her child and gets up again.

Through the ash, she sees Lyra moving ahead of her, weaving through the broken buildings. With a last great mustering of energy, she follows the dog forward. Dawn approaches and she doesn't know how this much time has fallen away from her. She falls and crawls and

struggles upwards. Her Aunt Dinah used to talk about volcanoes. Eruptions. The might descending upon Pompei from the skies, burnt fire skies.

In the red dawning day, the very last bomb falls, and it brings her to her knees.

But then, beyond the ash, in the distance, she sees the outline of a black ship. She runs, pushing forward through everything, running across the bridge miraculously intact, running to the black docks. Lyra leads her on, barking excitedly.

There is a small gathering of people emerging through the ash. She sees rowboats. She

sees the black ships.

“She gets herself in! Get in! Get in!” a woman helps Beatrice clamber on to the boat. She is old and of Indian descent, her face weathered like a sailor's, and she smokes a long pipe. Bea thinks of her aunties far across the sea. She thinks of her mother.

Lyra jumps in after her, curling up in her arms, and Bea hugs her close.

It is the last boat that will leave London, the last to meet the black ships as they sail to

sea. There Bea will meet Solomon and Vashti, already aboard. Twelve lucky people sit with her, and Bea is the very last. She offers a silver coin as a token payment, but the boatwoman shakes her head roughly. “Money don't matter no more, child.”

On the boat, she sits across from three women who are sewing. One ancient crone dressed in black. One pregnant mother dressed in green. And one young woman not so much older than Bea who is dressed in red.

266 “Welcome, Beatrice,” says the woman in green. “We've been waiting for you.”

“Do I know you?” Bea asks. They all look so very familiar.

“No,” says the woman dressed in red. “But we know you.”

Morning has struggled and won against the night. The city burns and smolders itself out.

It is freezing cold, and Bea rubs her hands together and pushes closer to Lyra, burying her nose in fur. They are packed tightly in the small boat. Bea wonders if it will sink, if they will all drown.

“How do you know my name?” she asks the women.

“We just do.”

She has nothing from London but the clothes she wears, her portable chess set, the black bottle, and the child growing in her belly. Even now, on this last lifeboat heading to the black ships, Bea feels she has half-forgotten the faces of Deborah, Barak, Ruth, Elena, Myriam or even

Essie. It is as if her time in the city has been a dream best forgot.

“Who are you?” she asks the weavers.

But the women do not answer. Bea deliberately turns away from them.

The streets they row past are empty and silent. Bea wonders if anything still lives in the city above ground or beneath it. She thinks she sees a raven swoop down through the mist, but perhaps it is only a shadow.

“They say VirtNet shorted out,” whispers an old man next to the boatwoman. “They say that the generators were hit.”

“I heard from a govboy that the virt would keep going and going forever,” says another woman who looks like she could be the old man's daughter. “They have self-perpetuating generators deep underground.”

267 They glide by the place where Parliament once stood and look at the smoldering ashes.

The streets are hazy, and it is hard to see where buildings stop so thick is the smoke. They row to

meet the black sail ship already further up the river. The Watcher has become a crater, the path of

ash leading to it indistinguishable from the rest.

As Bea takes her ship down the Thames towards the sea to cross over into a new land,

she does not know what the years ahead hold. She cannot see the nuclear bombs that will start

falling next week, the mutations from radiation, the desperate bid for resources, the slow death of

a species which cannot reproduce. She cannot see the march of years which will eradicate the

remains of humanity until the Earth’s dead carcass stands devoid of life. She cannot see herself,

raising her young daughter alone in a far distant country amidst struggle and famine. She cannot

see herself watching her daughter unite the scattered tribes one last time before the end of the

end. She cannot know as she makes her way across water through fog and ash that she will be the

last survivor from London, that her daughter will be the very last human survivor on the surface

of the Earth.

She watches the swirling smoke and fog obscure the shore, one hand over her belly and

the other gripping the side of the boat. Bea has never believed in very much. The world has never

been easy for her. She thinks of First Woman, who tried so hard to arrange the stars. Of Coyote, who convinced her to turn the careful signs to chaos. She does not know what lies ahead, but she

hopes perhaps somewhere, somewhen, somehow, she will find her way out of the mist.

268 SUMMARY OF BOOKS III-V1

Book III: The Island

Eve, a young girl who cannot speak, lives on the Island with her companion Adam. Their lives are simple and their relationship to each other affectionately intimate. The children are looked after by beings called Watchers, particularly three guardians called Michael, Gabriel, and

Uriel. The Watchers tell Adam stories about places beyond the Island, including a world where it is always dark and cold. Adam tells these stories to Eve when they lie together in their bed at night. The children occasionally visit Yah, who lives in Castle at the center of the Island. She made the Island and everything on it, including Eve and Adam.

Shortly after following the Sailor out to sea and recovering the blue bottle from the sandbar, Eve sees a trail of smoke in the sky. She walks to it and finds a vast tide pool in a grove of trees. Jumping into the water to chase her own reflection, which she believes to be a little girl called Lilith, Eve nearly drowns. The Sailor saves her, and introduces herself as Lucifer. She tells

Eve that she is on the Island looking for a woman called Esther Smith.

Lucifer becomes Eve's closest friend and mentor, teaching her about herbs, telling her stories of London and her mother Beatrice, and trying to help her learn to speak. Eve proves a willing and able student, and often passes on what she learns to Adam. She chooses not to introduce Adam to Lucifer, however, and remains mute.

1 I have chosen to include a slightly more detailed summary of Book III because it was the portion of the novel that most directly influenced my MA thesis, and my exploration of Assia Djebar and Margaret Atwood drastically changed how I approached my own mythic retelling in revision. The summaries for Books IV and V are more condensed, and I have included them here primarily to provide a sense of the overall trajectory of the novel. 269 One night, after having supper with Michael and Gabriel, Eve and Adam are summoned to Castle to see Yah. Uriel escorts them through the building where they see the various experiments of the Watchers. They also notice a black door which they are told never to open.

They ascend to the tower of Castle with Uriel and there meet Yah. She tells the two children that their bodies will start to grow and change and soon they will make children of their own.

Yah asks Eve to remain behind for a private conversation. She reveals that she is aware of

Eve's liaison with Lucifer and also tells Eve her mentor's story. Lucifer was a Watcher—the very first of Yah's creations—who rebelled against Yah and was exiled from Yah's world. Yah tells

Eve that she intends to use Eve's relationship to Lucifer in order to catch her former favorite.

When Eve next meets up with Lucifer, she is anxious and cannot think how to warn her friend of danger. She follows Lucifer to the southern cliffs of the Island. There, Lucifer takes her to a grotto which holds the ship with the black sails. Lucifer tells Eve she has been under Castle, behind the forbidden black door, and has discovered a terrible truth about the Island. When Eve asks what the truth is, however, Lucifer tells Eve that she must see for herself.

Lucifer induces a tired Eve to sleep and enters into her dreams. Eve discovers she can speak, and Lucifer shows her the cosmos before showing her the early life of Esther Smith—then called Delilah Winters—who was a brilliant computer programmer for virtual reality worlds even at a young age. Eve sees Delilah play tricks on her three brothers, walk out of a church service run by her preacher father, and cry at her parents' funeral following a car accident.

When Eve and Lucifer awake, they are on top of the southern cliffs. Michael, Gabriel, and

Uriel surround them and have their weapons ready to strike. Eve pleads for the Watchers to spare

Lucifer, and they react with frustration and anger to her sudden ability to speak, suggesting

270 that Yah will make them start everything over again. Eve steps in front of their swords to protect

Lucifer, but the other woman grabs Eve from behind and dangles her over the cliff by her hair.

Gabriel does not believe Lucifer's threat against Eve and tries to call her bluff. Lucifer, however, drops Eve over the cliff, forcing Uriel and Gabriel to catch her. In the ensuing panic, Lucifer escapes.

Gabriel pleads Eve's case to Yah, and she is permitted to return home to Adam. Feeling betrayed and broken, she reveals to Adam that she can speak. He, however, reacts poorly to this announcement, initially suggesting that perhaps she should not speak because it is not proper.

Over the following months, Eve and Adam become more and more estranged from each other.

While Eve continues to try to learn without Lucifer, she feels lonely and isolated separated physically and emotionally from her two closest friends.

One night, Eve overhears the Watchers discussing her future with Adam. The Watchers are frightened that the cycle will have to start again, but are hopeful that the two children will make it into adulthood this time. They discuss their particular concerns and their continued suspicions towards Eve because of her association with Lucifer. Michael dismisses these concerns by reminding the others that soon she will be bred and too busy raising children to cause any trouble.

Eve returns and confronts Adam, demanding to know what the Watchers have been telling him about their future. The two argue but eventually both realize the other's unhappiness.

Adam reveals the Watchers intend to breed them on schedule. In an act of rebellion and as an effort to connect, they have sex for the first time.

In the morning, Eve insists that she is going to Castle to see what is behind the forbidden black door. Adam decides to go with her, and they open the black door to reveal a staircase going

271 down beneath Castle. They descend into the darkness only to discover an identical Castle underneath their own. In the place Yah's tower should be is a spiral staircase descending down further into the earth. They follow it down to the underground parallel of the tower room.

Here, the screens show them the truth of their world. They discover that many versions of

Adam and Eve (known as Lilith in previous incarnations) have been on different Islands only to disobey Yah's commands. They are then destroyed and reborn without memories of their previous mistakes. Lilith continually rebels, and Adam continually begs Yah to restart in order to

save her. The form of rebellion changes from attempt to attempt, but it always ends with the

Island sinking into the sea and a new Island taking its place.

Horrified, the two return to their home. Adam wants to keep what they saw secret to prevent Yah from restarting the cycle, but Eve is determined to leave the Island and escape from

Yah. She decides to go to Lucifer for help. Adam tries to persuade her not to leave, and she tries to convince him to come with her. When he refuses to leave the Island, she goes back to

Lucifer's grotto on her own.

Upon arrival, she cannot find Lucifer, but she does see images moving across the surface of the water in the grotto. When she touches the water, she is transported into the memories of

Delilah Winters once more. This time, rather than seeing Delilah's memories, however, she becomes Delilah, merging with her.

A much in-demand virtual reality programmer working in New York, Delilah receives a phone call from her niece Virgil. She cannot sleep and asks her aunt how she knows she is not in a virtual reality. This question begins a journey that causes Delilah to doubt whether or not the world around her is real. She creates several artificially intelligent programs—Gabriel and

Michael are her favorites—and sets them the task of uncovering whether the real world is real.

272 Meanwhile, she assembles a team across the world called the Sisterhood. Soon, she becomes

convinced that her world is a simulation.

Delilah moves back to London and intentionally stops her heart with a friend standing by

to revive her. The experiment is a partial success—Delilah meets up with a program resembling

Gabriel who tells her she is right that she is in a simulation. Eventually, Delilah, who is now

called Essie, becomes convinced that she must end the simulation in order to liberate her world.

She escapes London into the Abyss through a meditation technique which allows her to “see-

through” the world.

Eve wakes from her merging with Essie to finally find Lucifer waiting for her. Her friend

tells her that Essie entered into the void and eventually, alone and frightened, turned into Yah.

Lucifer has hoped that it might be possible to reach the woman Esther used to be in order to

reason with Yah, but she does not believe any part of Essie remains inside of the powerful being

who controls the Island. She explains to Eve that she wanted to help her break out of the cycle, and threw her over the cliff to prevent Yah from seeing her as a threat and potentially wiping her

memory again.

Following this explanation, Adam leads Yah and the Watchers to the grotto. Lucifer

challenges Yah directly to battle to give Eve time to escape the Island and potentially break the

cycle for good. Because of Yah's anger, a terrible storm is brewing, and the Island is sinking into

the sea. Desperate, Eve decides she must take the black ship out of the grotto to escape from the

Island. She begs Adam to accompany her and eventually convinces him to join her in the escape.

Together, they attempt to sail the ship on the raging sea, but the waves quickly tear the

craft to pieces and nearly drown them both. They manage to tie themselves to the wreckage of

the ship, and Eve discovers she can “see-through” the world like Yah or Lucifer. She manages to

273 use her new-found power to create a whirlpool and bring the ship down safely into another

world, but the energy she expends nearly kills her.

Eve wakes broken and bruised in Lucifer's arms. She discovers that Lucifer has fatally

wounded Yah, who is dying on the beach. Yah has reverted back to Essie, and manages to hold

back the power of her alter ego to allow for her death. She predicts, however, that Michael will

merely take her place as the patriarch of heaven and that he will seek vengeance against Adam

and Eve for breaking the rules set up for them.

Lucifer offers to take Eve to her world, but Eve decides to remain with the still­

unconscious Adam in order to bring her future children into existence. She decides that the

world, even with all the suffering she knows will come with it, should be given a chance. She

realizes, in refusing to go with Lucifer, that she is in love with her. While she knows she also loves Adam, it is not in the same way as she loves her friend. Lucifer promises that they will see

each other again, and the book closes with Eve reviving Adam and introducing him to their new land.

Book IV: The Reaping

Orpah and Jez are stuck in a virtual world that keeps short-circuiting. They are thrown

between a graveyard, a cave, and a white room. They eventually find Ahab and try to escape

together, but Orpah becomes separated from the group and finds herself at World's End, where

her parents are waiting for her. Meanwhile, Jezebel finds herself in a terrible place where she is

continually on fire and in pain.

274 Orpah, Elena, and Michel spend one day together at World’s End before the world disintegrates and they are separated.

Deborah, who is now a two-headed cherub creature attached to Barak, plays happily through the clouds of The Shining City of the Sun. Elena arrives and is told to go to the memory chamber for processing. Elena refuses, begging for help finding Ruth and Michel. Eventually she encounters Adam, who helps her find her way to the Tree of Knowledge so she can leave The

Shining City of the Sun and join Orpah and Michel in hell. While God/Michael tells Elena to stay, she chooses to eat the fruit. Deborah briefly touches the fruit and remembers who she used to be, but cannot handle the memories and chooses to forget.

Elena encounters Lucifer, who helps her into hell in exchange for her helping Lucifer return there from the Abyss. Lucifer reveals that she intends to create a way out of the simulation and into a better world that allows for permanent death. Elena agrees to help, even if it takes her a very long time.

Book V: Starlight

Telling-Tree finally turns prophet, and Witch-Woman wakes Twice-Born and Village.

She leads them, using her green bottle to navigate, through the Wilderness towards Mountain.

After several hardships, the group arrives at Mountain and goes underneath to the fire pits. They encounter Jez/Fire-Head and Meke/Michel while there. Twice-Born dies in the fire and is resurrected as Thrice-Born-Woman. They eventually reach a grotto (which looks like the grotto from the Island). Morgana/Eve transforms from a cat back into a woman and shows Witch­

Woman how to guide Bright Star/Lucifer back into the world. Bright Star arrives on the tattered

275 remains of the black sail ship. A door appears in the grotto, and Thrice-Born and Witch-Woman are invited to be the first to exit the simulation.

276