The White Oak (17 page)

At the front of the room the judges’ bench stands about seven feet high and spans the width of the room. It curves slightly, like a great crescent moon, clear and black. It reminds me of a large computer monitor or a panoramic movie screen. Seven tall chairs are spaced along the bench. In front of each a different image glows. They belong to each jurisdiction, and it’s hard to tell if they are corporate logos or government seals. The names of the regions appear above the icons, and woven into the images are mottoes.

Behind me, a door creaks open and I hear the click, click, click of heels on tile as someone approaches. I turn to look, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. He or she stops in front of me and glances at me without looking directly into my eyes. His or her face has the quality of water, shifting and changing form as though constantly fitting itself to a new container. I watch as the face blurs and then comes into focus, the features taking an angular, masculine shape. His hair is short, dark, and styled with thick ringlets. He is fine-boned, with pale skin and precise hands. “I am the attorney assigned to your case,” he says. Then his face softens and becomes female. “I am the attorney assigned to your case,” she says, looking directly into my eyes. “I advise you to remain silent during the proceedings.” I look at her watery skin and have the eerie feeling that she knows me, but how could she? I want to ask her, but other questions need answering first.

“Am I on trial?” I ask.

She laughs. “What do you think?” she says. “They don’t bring prisoners to court just to watch.” She is mocking me, but I try not to let that provoke me. Something in her sarcastic smile reminds me of someone. I just can’t figure out whom.

She walks over to the table, sits down, and takes two manila folders out of her briefcase, setting both on the table, one in front of her seat, and the other in front of the empty seat next to her. Her perfectly manicured fingers hold an engraved silver pen that she writes with briskly and precisely.

“What’s going on?” I say. “If you’re my lawyer, why aren’t you talking to me?”

She doesn’t answer but turns to look at me briefly, still smiling slyly, as she stands up to switch chairs. I know that smile, but I can’t place it.

As she takes the opposing counsel’s seat, she transforms into a man. He opens his folder and makes some notes. When he’s finished, he turns to look at me, but the sly smile is gone. His gaze is openly hostile, so much so that I back away and turn around to face the opposite side of the courtroom. I’m wishing Minotaur were here to explain what’s going on.

The large doors at the back of the courtroom swing open, and a tall man dressed in a police officer’s uniform enters and stands by the door as the spectators file in. Some greet him with “Hello, Marshal” as they take their seats. They act as though they come here all the time. I wonder if these ghosts are trapped in the courtroom theater.

They push and shove, moving to the front of the courtroom, where they lean over the bar to gawk at me. I turn away and stare at the back of my lawyer’s head. To get my attention, one of the ghosts reaches over and knocks on the glass. Reflexively, I turn to look, and frown when I see them crowded together making faces at me as if I’m an infant in an incubator. They laugh when they see that they’ve upset me. The more I react, the more excited they become. Every movement I make provokes a chorus of jeers. I feel like an animal in a zoo. I go to the other side of my cage and face the front of the courtroom, pressing against the glass and blinking back hot tears that are stinging my eyes, threatening to roll down my cheeks. I
hate
being teased.

The marshal walks to the front of the courtroom, stands at the right of the bench, and calls the court to order. “All rise and give your attention to the Honorable Justices of the Supreme Court,” he says. A hush falls over the spectators as they stand.

The first justice enters. He’s semitransparent, and his skin is ghostly white with a bluish cast. As he takes his seat at the far end of the bench, he smiles at me in an almost kindly way. I relax a bit. Maybe this trial won’t be so bad after all. The justice’s long white beard makes him look wise. He is exactly what I would expect a judge to look like except for his transparency, which I can’t make sense of. Power equals substance down here, and who could be more powerful than a Supreme Court justice? The crest on the bench in front of him glows when he takes his seat. R
EGION
O
NE
, it reads. The logo is a black-and-white image of one of Asphodel’s parking spaces with a light gray labyrinth rendered inside it. A tiny blue dot navigates the maze, running the same course over and over. Under the image is the motto, W
ORK
IS
ITS
OWN
REWARD
.

The judge smiles and nods. I turn to look at the spectators and notice they are smiling back in an unkind way, whispering to each other and covering their faces to laugh. One of them pantomimes the things the judge does before he does them—he adjusts his chair, lines up his pencils, coughs twice, and preens his beard. They act as if he’s an elderly relative whose habits they’ve tired of.

The second justice enters in visible distress. Something about her reminds me of the flat shades that filled the streets as I fled the Keres. She carries a stack of papers under her arm and mumbles to herself about the work she has to do. On her right wrist is an expensive-looking watch that’s also a shackle—a gold chain dangles from it. A small animal with a long tail clings to her back. I can see bloodstains through her robes where the creature’s claws have pierced the fabric and dug into her flesh. Oddly, she is deferential to it, leaning forward when she sits so as not to crush it. On the bench in front of her chair R
EGION
T
WO
lights up. The crest depicts a house, a car, a credit card, an airplane, a college diploma, a voting booth, and a bank, all of which are joined by an interwoven gold chain; the motto reads, E
NSLAVE
T
HYSELF
.

The doorway widens to accommodate the next justice, an enormous man. He waddles into the courtroom, his voluminous robes flapping open. Underneath he wears nothing. His private parts are hidden by rolls of flesh that flap against his thighs and his dimpled knees. His bald head is dewy with perspiration. Tiny rivulets of sweat run down the sides of his face and slide into the deep folds of flesh under his chin. His robes are damp with sweat. With a grunt, he takes his seat. R
EGION
T
HREE
is displayed above his insignia, an image of a wide-open mouth, black inside and rimmed by fat pink lips. A montage of prepackaged junk-food advertisements plays against the backdrop of the mouth. The motto N
EVER
E
NOUGH
is centered under the lower lip in bold lettering.

A handsome judge with a wolf’s head and a man’s body enters the courtroom. He is wearing an expensive suit under his robes, and when he smiles, I can see that his sharp wolf’s teeth are made of gold. He is talking on his mobile phone, and in his eyes is a hunger, a predatory drive. When he sits down, he immediately bends to his keyboard and types. R
EGION
F
OUR
is displayed on his section of the bench. In place of a logo, a window reveals what he’s working on—the spreadsheets he is constructing, and the ever-changing market data, world news, political speeches, and unemployment numbers that he is scanning. I can see his balance sheet growing and changing as he reacts to the markets and chases the opportunities. At the lower right-hand corner of the window is his motto, G
REED
IS
G
OOD
.

The next justice walks slowly into the courtroom, finding his way with a cane that is as sharp as a sword at the end. His eye sockets are empty, his eyelids sunk grotesquely into them. He pokes the air in front of him, heedless of the damage he might do to anyone standing in the way. All the while he mutters prayers in an angry voice. He finds his chair by thrusting his rapier through the back of it. He curses as he pulls it out and takes his seat. Rigid and hostile, he calls out the sins of those in the courtroom. R
EGION
F
IVE
is spelled out on the bench. On his crest, I recognize symbols from lots of different religions, including my own. The motto I P
UNISH
IN
G
OD’S
S
TEAD
appears beneath it.

A shadow now enters the courtroom. This judge moves like a whirlwind. She reminds me of a Ker, but she’s different. She changes shape like a cloud, and each time I look, her form is more frightening and violent. She is a huge black crow, then an angry dog foaming at the mouth, next a cold-eyed dictator. As she takes her seat she murders herself, slitting her own throat in front of the court. Black blood pools like an oil spill on the bench. R
EGION
S
IX
appears on the bench before her, and her crest depicts the annihilation of nature, God, self, and neighbors. D
ESTRUCTION
B
EFORE
C
REATION
is her motto.

Fear crackles through the courtroom like static electricity when the chief justice enters. He is an athletic man with silver hair cropped close to his hard, muscular face. His skin is colorless except for his eyes, which burn like red embers. The black judicial robe he wears has seven sleeves for his seven arms. Six are aligned along his sides, but the seventh grows out of his back, from between his shoulder blades. He holds it above his head. The fingers on the seventh hand are spread, seemingly ready to grasp at anything that comes close enough, and the nails are clawlike. The elbow of this raised arm is bent slightly, giving the arm the appearance of a scorpion’s stinger. He bellows for an assistant to bring him his notes, and the unfortunate aide goes up in flames when he touches her hand. He takes his seat at the center of the curved bench. The R
EGION
S
EVEN
crest sometimes looks like a corporate logo and sometimes like a presidential seal. It’s accompanied by the motto F
OR
THE
G
REATER
G
OOD
.

“This Court is now in session,” the marshal announces.

“We will hear arguments today in the case of the Underworld Nation versus Cora Alexander,” the chief justice says in a strong, masculine voice that crackles with fire. “Is Counsel for the petitioner ready?”

My lawyer takes on her male form, steps up to the podium, and says, “Yes, Your Honor.” My two-faced lawyer is counsel for both sides, loyal to neither. The Court doesn’t seem to notice or mind, but it makes me sick to my stomach.

The spectators in this questionable Court are like the judges—human, but with certain aspects that make them monstrous. They leer at me and whisper to each other. A small man with owl eyes sits in front of my glass cell. He sketches the proceedings as rapidly as the squirrel-headed clerk types the transcript.

“Mr. Chief Justice, and may it please the Court,” the lawyer begins. “For over 6,000 years, this Court has held, without exception, that underworld inhabitants may not exhibit Free Will. Such a law, this Court has explained, serves important interests in—”

“Excuse me, Counsel,” the chief justice interrupts. “Are you certain there have been no exceptions?”

The lawyer pauses at the question. “Your Honor,” he begins, “the only exception I know of was a temporary suspension, granted for the construction of this great City.”

“Correct,” the chief justice says, but he looks slightly uncomfortable. It could be my imagination, but it seems as if the whole courtroom is ill at ease with the mention of this exception. “Please be precise in your arguments, Counsel.”

“I apologize, Your Honor. If it pleases the Court, I will begin again.” The lawyer pauses for a moment to be sure the Justices have no objections. “For six millenniums, this Court has held, with only one exception, that underworld inhabitants may not exhibit Free Will. Such a law, this Court has explained, serves important interests in maintaining order and perpetuating this great nation. Your Honors, there must be a very clear division between Free Will, which is one’s right during life, and Fixed Destiny, which is one’s obligation after death. The very fabric of our society depends upon it. I submit to you that the mere presence of the Living One threatens our world.”

I feel a tug in my chest when the lawyer refers to me as the Living One. My hand automatically reaches for the seeds in my dress. I run my fingers over the bumps in the fabric and think about my garden back home. Grandfather said I had a gift for growing things. He showed me how to create hybrids, and I produced the strains that were so successful on the farm. When I made my dress for father’s funeral, I stitched in the seeds of flowers and herbs. It was my way of countering death with life. I wore the seeds to the funeral and into the underworld. Standing among the dead, I am acutely aware of how different I am. I take a deep breath while the courtroom looks on. I can sense the envy, admiration, awe, fear, and anger. Life—rare, precious, filled with potential—is flowing through me. I can feel how much they want it.

“You call her the Living One. Are you making reference to the legendary destroyer?” the justice from Region Two asks nervously.

“I am, Your Honor. Cora Alexander has so far fulfilled all the conditions—”

“Counsel,” the chief justice interrupts, “I must remind you that this is a court of law. We do not concern ourselves with legends, prophesies, or rumors—only with facts. Counsel, do you have proof that Cora Alexander is alive and in full possession of Free Will?”

“At this time, Your Honor, we move to introduce Exhibits Number 46 and Number 47 into evidence.”

“You may proceed, Counsel.”

Opposing counsel pauses before touching the remote control on the podium. “This testimony was submitted by the gatekeeper,” he says, clicking the remote to start the video. The gatekeeper’s troll-like face fills the screen. “Tell us what happened when Cora Alexander entered the city,” the lawyer says.