Aquifer (6 page)

Y
ou have attained the level of adulthood, memorized the codes and conduct needed for a waveless life in a great society.” Teacher speaks calmly. She has clearly mastered her own lessons. “Your parents have trained you, and your occupation awaits. Indeed, the next great moment in your life will be a Joining. As Sixteens, find assurance in the fact that your parents have relayed your personality information to the Joiners. These last three months are therefore a formality, a chance to fill in cracks that were missed in your formation. The exception is today.”

Teacher stands on the crumbling stone steps of New Pert’s only museum. The building, set back from the Swan’s inlet and surrounded by rubble, is unique in every way, from its creamy white columns to its marble exterior.

Children walk around it, wondering aloud. Adults are quick to respond, silencing all questions before they are fully formed.
The museum is to be experienced only once, and then never discussed again.

In this way, it’s like my mother.

“We will knock and wait. Once we are permitted entry, follow me quickly inside. I will take my leave of you and return here. The Curator will guide you through the Hall.” Teacher pauses at the door but does not turn. “Should you feel ill or faint, you may return to me. Feel no disgrace if you must leave early. It is a most … disquieting place.”

I glance at my twenty agemates. One boy and one girl already look green. They will not last long.

Teacher opens the door and we file in, the thick, wooden door closing silently behind us. I gasp.

It is beautiful. Statues, marble and perfect, stand in all stages of undress. The ceiling lofts high above, and is covered with an image, striking and vibrant and lifelike. It’s a man, his arm outstretched and powerful, attempting to touch the finger of a smaller, desperate figure. Who has the skill to create such a thing? Who knew such a thing existed?

I break my gaze from the ceiling and my brow furrows. My agemates and my teacher shield their eyes and stare down at the marble floor, their faces visibly shaken. Many clasp their hands and slowly raise their pointer. Right finger, then left finger. Relaxation exercise number three.

“It is called a painting, and it will remain on the ceiling,” Teacher says. “You may be experiencing a … concern. That is normal. It will pass when we are through the entry room.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” Kyrie whispers. Normally a pretty, self-assured Sixteen, her body trembles. She backs slowly toward the door.

“Then you should go.”

The voice is strong and comes from behind me. I spin.

This woman’s skin is unlike that of New Pertians. It is creamy and smooth, like the marble around us. Her hair is dark, as are her eyes. For an Older, she is beautiful.

“I am the Curator of the Hall. Fear is what you are feeling now, though you will not be told this in school. I assure you that there is nothing to fear above … or below. I would like to give you a tour, but if you cannot endure beauty, you certainly cannot endure the exhibits.”

She pauses and stares at me. “Hello, Luca. I’m especially glad you’ve come.”

“Uh … me too.”

“Class,” says the Curator, “unclench your hands and gaze upward.”

Ten. Ten do. “Teacher, you may take the fearful out onto the steps. No doubt I will be sending you more shortly.”

Teacher seems happy to leave, and when the door closes behind us, the Curator places her hands behind her back, staring at each remaining student in turn. “What you just were is brave. It is another feeling. It often holds hands with confusion, that sense of not knowing what course of action to take.”

“How can you speak so freely of feelings?” I ask. “Aren’t you afraid of the …” I glance about the room. “The Amongus?”

At the mention of them, six more agemates leave. Four remain.

“Their dials do not work within this stone, but I do not think I would alter my welcome if they did.” One more student out the door.

“So I have three. Three ready to experience the Hall of the Old. Prepare to feel.”

The other two retreat, and the Curator gestures me forward
through a marble arch. I peek at her, and she smiles. Not the cold smile of outside, but the warm one. The one I saw on Father before …

I step into a room filled with pedestals. It’s different, but not disturbing. “This is it? This is the Hall of the Old?”

The Curator nods. “In this room, you will find history’s greatest threats to humanity. That is, if you believe what I am going to tell you.” She winks.

“Should I believe you?”

The Curator gently bites her lip. “What a marvelous question! Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

I cock my head. “But how will I know?”

“You won’t. But trust your feelings. Trust that sense inside, the sense that will, if allowed, become a Voice. It no longer speaks to your agemates, but it still calls to you.”

“But I don’t know you and you don’t know me —”

“Call me Wren. Now we are introduced. If you will allow me to finish the tour …”

I take a heavy breath, and she beckons me to follow.

“I was speaking of threats. For example …” She guides me to a marble stand, which supports a tiny black box. “Behold, the smart phone. If in possession of one, you, Luca, could speak to anyone else in the world … from your dwelling. Anywhere. Anytime. And they could say anything without fear of punishment.”

“But how?” I reach out and touch the case.

“Each person was assigned their own numeric code. They entered the code into the phone and then spoke to each other, saw each other.” She sighs. “But imagine — ten billion people thinking their own thoughts. Expressing themselves. When your ancestor discovered the Aquifer and the power it gave him,
he feared these devices would inevitably lead to rebellion.” She touches the phone. “It wasn’t difficult to move the masses from a personal external code of freedom to an implanted internal one of bondage, which is where you now stand.”

“Wait, slow down.” I hold up my palm. “I want to know more about the Aquifer … And you know things about my
ancestors?
I don’t even know basic details about my mother.”

Wren pauses and breathes deeply. “Your mother. Yes, I move too quickly, and with far too much liberty. I must stick to the tour.”

She leads me to another display. “Over here, the expandable tablet, or ET for short. Same thing: Too much interaction. Too much sharing of ideas. Dangerous to the PM and the status quo.”

“You mean Rabal.”

“And his sons. They realized that a citizenry that cannot share ideas cannot rise up in protest. But enough of this technology. Let me show you my personal favorite.”

She leads me to a glass case, and I wince. “What is that?”

“The de-evolution of man. Behold the Water Rat.”

Rumors I’ve heard of their appearance claim they are gruesome. The truth is the stuff of nightmares.

Bent over, crouched on all fours, the stuffed rat snarls. It is hairless, and stares at me with eyes twice human size. It has no fingernails, and the bones of its spine rise and fall, some protruding from its skin, its posture no doubt due to a lifetime of crouching. Its hands and feet are abnormally flat and large, likely for padding over uneven layers of rock.

Wren continues. “Nine miners accompanied Rabal when he discovered the Aquifer. But unlike the first PM, these nine called for their families to join them, and together they discovered
a life below. Unlike Rabal, they never surfaced. Hundreds of years later, their ancestors still extract fresh water from the Aquifer and demand light rods in exchange.”

Water Rats.
There’s no way I’ll be able to descend to them
.

“Is that a him or her?” I ask.

“Our museum houses one female specimen.” She clears her throat. “And that statement you can believe.”

“This is what the Rats have become? And my father … well, me … I go down and make an exchange with those things?”

Wren hints a smile. “They control the freshwater rock bed we call the Aquifer. The last known source of water on this earth. You best make friends with the idea.”

She gestures for me to come nearer. “But, of course, Rabal was most concerned with something he considered much more dangerous …”

She points to a thick tome. I walk toward it. “A book.” My heart races. “Is this one dangerous?”

“Only insofar as it leads you to another, and another, and perchance finally to the one book Rabal feared above all things.” The curator cocks her head. “Do you remember books, Luca?”

Does she know? Has Lendi broken so soon?

“How would
I
remember? This must be the last one in existence.”

“Look here, my poor liar,” she whispers. “Can you read it?”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t.” I blink, and stare at the strange cover. “T …”

The curator nods. “Yes. The letter
T
. Keep going.”

I rub my fingers over the scratchings. “T-O- … T-O-M … Tom S … S …”

“Tom Sawyer. A book scratched, or written, by Mark Twain.”

My mind swarms. “How do I know some of the letters? How can I sound out the scratches? Why am I so Other?” I breathe deep. “Why did they undo my fa —”

I stare at Wren, whose eyes widen.

“Undo?” She bites her lip and glances toward the arch. “I have more words to say, but I will show you instead.”

She walks toward a small door, opens it, and disappears downstairs. I slowly follow her into the darkness, my hands grazing smooth marble on either side. At the bottom, the hall turns, turns again, and in the distance a light appears.

I follow the glow and emerge in a room filled with a dozen easels.

“Paintings.” I reach out my hand, and draw it back. “You painted that ceiling?”

“No,” she says. “I only paint what I’ve seen.”

She strides to an easel and whisks off the fabric covering.

I step forward and gaze at a most beautiful image. I have watched the sun dance on the sea, and observed the sea offer back reflections of the sky’s splendor. I’ve seen the Northern Mountains, the high country where rare snows still dust the land in magnificent white. My position as Massa’s son has allowed me to leave the district from which most never venture.

But I have never seen a sight like the painting.

Created in cool blues and grays, with streaks of yellow crisscrossing the canvas, I am struck and settled at the same time. The subject of the painting is unclear, but it draws me, as did Father’s voice. I want to see it, whatever it is.

“Tell me,” I say. “Where can I see this beautiful thing?”

She removes the canvas from the clips that hold it taut, rolls it, and slips it into a metal tube. “As you like it, you may keep it. It is my gift to the Deliverer. But Luca, hear this. Everything,
everything that happens — all your losses and your pains — all is because of this. Everything desires this.”

She reaches the tube to me and I grasp the other end. We stand in silence, connected by this beautiful, mysterious object, staring at each other. Her eyes speak, and though I don’t know what they say, I can’t help but gaze.

“I, uh, really should return to my agemates. They’re waiting for me on the steps, I’m sure.”

“No. School was over an hour ago.” She releases the painting. “You are dismissed home.”

I back toward the hallway and stop. “Could I quickly see the others?”

“Yes. You can see them all.” Wren raises her eyebrows. “But not today.”

“But this is my day. My one day at the museum. I come —”

“Anytime you like. Deliverer’s privilege.”

My spine tingles, and I clutch the painting to my chest. “When are you open?”

“Whenever you knock.”

“You better not say that.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I might come at midnight.”

“Whenever you knock.”

I stroke the tube. “Well, okay then. I’ll … uh … I’ll see you soon.”

I dash up the stairs, bash my head on the marble overhang, and stumble into the Hall of the Old. I rub what will certainly become a mighty lump, but I hardly feel it. I feel something else, a warm else. An else I haven’t felt since Father left.

I don’t feel so alone.

I skip outside and down the stairs. It’s a distance to my house, but I don’t mind. My thoughts travel from the book to
my painting and back again. I’m not sure what I would tell an Amongus — I’m wrinkling something fierce — but I feel light like I haven’t before.

Tom Sawyer. He didn’t look like a dangerous boy
.

Yes, I decide, I should hurt more for Father.

No, I decide, I should not spend so much time dwelling on myself.

During the nights, the guilt of my selfishness overpowers. Noises were more familiar with him here. Moon shadow was comfortable and safe with him in his cot.

But we hardly spoke. I hardly knew the man.

I push his memory out when it forms, and focus on the Curator. Her words fill my days.

Weeks pass, and soon Wren’s paintings line the walls of my cellar. My nighttime excursions to the museum fill my mind; whatever is taught in the circle of Sixteens is lost on me. I walk empty streets in shadow, her canvases hidden beneath my coat, feeling very much the pirate. Maybe this is how Seward feels.

But I must take them. It’s a shame to conceal such beauty in Wren’s basement, where light can’t dance off the color and shade. Possession of a painting must warrant a debriefing. I’ve not heard of a prohibition, but there must be one. Living with Father has taught me the Amongus are never far away.

I spend hours staring at Wren’s work, and during sleep her paintings invade my dreams, along with new sounds of her laughter and singing.

Perhaps it’s some strange fume from the paint, but I’m okay with those intrusions. The sounds are so welcome to hear.

“Luca?”

I sit across from Wren on the top floor of the museum, where sunlight streams through the sky roof. “Would you like to learn how to read? All the words.”

All the words of all my books. Of Dad’s special book
.

“Of course I would. But if the Amongus found out … I mean, that’s worthy of undoing, for most people.”