Tunnels (27 page)

His reprieve finally came when, finishing his plate of mush, Mr. Jerome downed a glass of murky water and then abruptly got up. He folded his napkin twice and tossed it carelessly onto the table. He reached the door just as the wretch of a serving man was entering with a copper bowl in his hands. To Will's horror, Mr. Jerome elbowed him brutally aside. Will thought the man was going to fall as he lurched against the wall. He fought to regain his balance as the contents of the bowl tipped out, and apples and oranges rolled around the floor and under the table.

As if Mr. Jerome's behavior was nothing out of the ordinary, the serving man didn't so much as murmur. Will could see a cut on his lip and blood trickling down his chin as the unfortunate man crawled around the base of his chair, retrieving the fruit.

Will was flabbergasted, but
Cal
seemed to be ignoring the incident altogether. Will watched the pathetic man until he left the room and then, deciding there was nothing he could do, turned his attention to the bowl of fresh fruit — there were bananas, pears, and a couple of figs in addition to the apples and oranges. He helped himself, grateful for something familiar and recognizable after the first two courses.

At that moment the front door slammed with such a crash that the casement windows shook. Will and Cal listened as Mr. Jerome's footsteps retreated down the front path. It was Will who broke the silence.

"Doesn't like me much, does he?"

Cal
shook his head as he peeled an orange.

"Why—" Will stopped short as the servant returned and stood submissively behind
Cal
's
chair.

"You can go,"
Cal
ordered rudely, not even bothering to look at the man, who slipped quietly out of the room.

"Who was that?" Will inquired.

"Oh, that was just Watkins."

Will didn't speak for a moment, then asked,
"What
did you say his name was?"

"Watkins… Terry Watkins."

Will repeated the name to himself several times. "I'm sure I know that from somewhere." Although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, the name triggered a sense of foreboding in him.

Cal
continued eating, enjoying Will's confusion, and then Will remembered with a start. "They went missing, the whole family!"

"Yes, they certainly did."

Taken aback, Will quickly looked across at
Cal
. "They were snatched!"

"They had to be, they were a problem. Watkins stumbled onto an air channel, and we couldn't have him telling anybody."

"But that can't be Mr. Watkins — he was a big man. I've seen him… his sons went to my school," Will said. "No, that can't be the same person."

"He and his family were put to work,"
Cal
said coldly.

"But…" Will stuttered as he juggled the mental image of Mr. Watkins as he used to appear with how he looked now. "…he looks a hundred years old. What happened to him?" Will couldn't help but think of his own predicament, and of Chester's. So was that to be their fate? Forced into slavery for these people?

"Just as I said, they were all put to work,"
Cal
repeated, lifting a pear to smell its skin. Noticing there was a smear of Mr. Watkins blood on it, he polished it on his shirt before taking a bite.

Will was regarding his brother now with renewed scrutiny, trying to figure him out. The warmth he'd been beginning to feel toward him had all but evaporated. There was a vindictiveness, a hostility even, evident within the younger boy that Will didn't understand or very much care for. One moment he was saying he wanted to escape from the Colony, and the next he was acting as if he was completely at home here.

Will's train of thought was broken as
Cal
glanced over at his father's empty chair and sighed. "This is very hard on Father, but you have to give him time. I suppose you bring back too many memories."

"About
what
, exactly?" Will shot back, not feeling an ounce of sympathy for the surly old man. That was where the notion of his newfound family fell apart — if he never saw Mr. Jerome again, it would be too soon.

"About Mother, of course. Uncle Tam says she always was a bit of a rebel."
Cal
sighed again, then fell silent.

"But… did something bad happen?"

"We had a brother. He was only a baby. He died from a fever. After that, she ran away." A wistful look came into
Cal
's
eyes.

"A brother," Will echoed.

Cal
stared at him, any hint of his usual grin absent from his face. "She was trying to get both of us out when the Styx caught up."

"So she escaped?"

"Yes, but only just, and that's why I'm still here."
Cal
took another mouthful of pear and was still chewing when he spoke again. "Uncle Tam says she's the only one he knows who got out and stayed out."

"She's still alive?"

Cal
nodded. "As far as we know. But she broke the laws, and if your break the law the Styx never let go, even if you make it Topsoil. It doesn't end there. One day, they
will
catch up with you, and then they
will
punish you."

"Punish? How?"

"In Mother's case, execution," he said succinctly. "That's why you have to tread very carefully."

Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.
Cal
got to his feet and glanced through the window. "Seven bells. We should go."

* * * * *

Once they were outside,
Cal
forged ahead, and Will found it difficult to keep up, his new pants chafing against his thighs with every stride. It was as though they'd stepped into a river of people. The streets heaved with them, all dashing frantically in different directions as if they were late for something. It looked and sounded like a confused flock of leathery birds taking flight. Will followed
Cal
's
lead, and after several turns they joined the end of a line outside a plain-looking building that resembled a warehouse. In front of each of the studded wooden doors at the entrance a pair of Styx stood in their characteristic poses, arched over like vindictive principals about to strike. Will bowed his head, trying to blend in with the crowd and avoid the jet-black pupils of the Styx, which he knew would be upon him.

Inside, the hall was deceptively big — around half the size of a football field. Large flagstones, shiny with dark patches of damp, formed the floor. The walls were roughly plastered and whitewashed. Looking around, he could see elevated platforms in the four corners of the hall, crude wooden pulpits, each with a Styx in place,
hawkishly
scrutinizing the gathering.

Halfway down the left and right walls were two huge oil paintings. Because of the sheer mass of people in the way, Will didn't have a clear view of the painting on the right, so he turned to examine the one nearer to him. In the foreground was a man dressed in a black coat and a dark green vest, sporting a top hat above his somewhat lugubrious and mutton-chopped face. He was studying a large sheet of paper, which might have been a plan, spread open in his hands. And he appeared to be standing in the midst of some kind of earthworks. Huddled at his sides were many other men with pickaxes and shovels, all of them looking at him with rapt admiration. For no particular reason, it brought to Will's mind pictures he'd seen of Jesus and his disciples.

"Who's that?" Will asked
Cal
, motioning toward the painting as people bustled past them.

"Sir Gabriel
Martineau
, of course. It's called the
Breaking of the Ground."

With the ever-increasing crowds of people milling around in the hall, Will had to jig his head from side to side to make out more of the painting. Other than the main figure, who Will now knew was
Martineau
himself, the ghostly faces of the workmen fascinated him. Silvery rays of what could have been moonlight radiated from above and fell on their faces, which glowed with a soft, saintly luminosity. And adding to this effect, many of them appeared to have an even brighter light directly above their heads, as if they had halos.

"No," Will murmured to himself, realizing with a start that they weren't halos at all, but that it was their white hair.

"Those others?" he said to
Cal
. "Who are they?"

Cal
was about to reply when a portly Colonist barged rudely into him, spinning him almost completely around. The man continued determinedly on his way without so much as an apology, but
Cal
didn't seem to be the slightest bit annoyed by the man's conduct. Will was still waiting for an answer as
Cal
wheeled back to face him again. He spoke as if he were addressing someone who was irretrievably stupid.

"They're our ancestors, Will," he said with a sigh.

"Oh."

Despite the fact that Will was burning with curiosity about the picture, it was hopeless — his view was now almost completely blocked by the massing crowd. Instead, he turned to the front of the hall, where there were ten or so carved wooden pews, packed with closely seated Colonists. Going up on tiptoes to try to see what was beyond them, he caught sight of a massive iron crucifix fixed to the wall — it seemed to be made from two sections of railway track, bolted together with huge round-headed rivets.

Cal
tugged him by the sleeve, and they pushed their way through the gathering to a position closer to the pews. The doors thudded shut, and Will realized that the hall had been crammed to capacity in scarcely any time at all. He found it stifling, squashed against
Cal
on one side and bulky Colonists on the others. The room was warming up quickly, and wraithlike wisps of steam were beginning to rise from the damp clothes of the crowd and encircle the hanging lights.

The hubbub of conversation died down as a Styx mounted the pulpit by the side of the metal cross. He wore a full-length black gown, and his shining eyes lanced through the foggy air. For a brief moment, he closed them and inclined his head forward. Then he slowly looked up, his black gown opening, making him look like a bat about to take flight as he extended his arms toward the congregation and started to speak in a sibilant monastic drone. At first, Will couldn't quite catch what he was saying, even though from the four corners of the room the voices of the other Styx were reiterating the words of the preacher in scratchy whispers, a sound not unlike the massed tearing of dry parchments. Will listened more intently as the preacher raised his voice.

"Know this, brethren, know this," he said, his gaze scything through the congregation as he drew breath melodramatically.

"The surface of the earth is beset by creatures in a constant state of war with one another. Millions perish on either side, and there is no limit to the brutality of their malice. Their nations fall and rise, only to fall again. The vast forests have been laid low by them, and the pastures defiled with their poison." All around him Will heard mumbled words of agreement. The preacher Styx leaned forward, grasping the edge of the pulpit with his pale fingers.

"Their gluttony is matched only by their appetites for death, affliction, terror, and banishment of every living thing. And, despite their iniquities, they aspire to rise to the firmament… but,
mark this
, the excessive weight of their very sins will weigh them down." There was a pause as his black eyes scanned the flock and, raising his left arm above his head, a long, bony index finger pointing upward, he continued.

"Nothing remains on the soil or in the great oceans that shall not be hunted, disturbed, or despoiled. To the living things slain in droves, these defilers are both the sepulcher and the means of transition."

"And when the judgment comes" — he lowered his arm now and pointed forebodingly at members of the congregation through the hazy atmosphere — "and mark these words, it will… then they will be hurled into the abyss and forever lost to the Lord… and on that day, the truthful, the righteous, we of the true way, will once again return to reclaim the surface, to begin again, to build the new dominion… the new Jerusalem. For this is the teaching and the knowledge of our forefathers, passed down to us through the ages by the Book of Catastrophes."

A hush filled the hall, absolute and unbroken by a single cough or shuffle. Then the preacher spoke again, in a calmer, almost conversational tone.

"So let it be known, so let it be understood." He bowed his head.

Will thought he glimpsed Mr. Jerome seated in the pews, but couldn’t be sure because he was so completely hemmed in.

Then, without warning, the whole congregation joined in with the Styx's monotone: "The earth is the Lord's, and the followers thereof, the earth and all that dwell therein. We give our eternal gratitude to our Savior, Sir Gabriel, and the Founding Fathers for their
shepherdship
and for the flowing together into one another, as all that happens in God's earth is also on the highest level, the
Kingdom
of
God
."

There was a moment's pause, and the Styx spoke again. "As above, so below."

The voices of the congregation boomed
amens
as the Styx took a step back, and Will lost sight of him. He swung around to
Cal
to ask him a question, but there was no time as the congregation immediately started to file toward the doorway, leaving the hall as swiftly as it had collected. The boys were swept along in the tide of people until they found themselves back on the street, where they stood watching them depart in all directions.

"I don't get this 'As below, so above' stuff," Will told
Cal
in a low voice. "I thought everybody hated
Topsoilers
."

"Above isn't
Topsoil
,"
Cal
replied, so loudly and in such a petulant tone that several burly men in earshot turned to regard Will with snarls of disgust. He winced — he was beginning to wonder if having a younger brother was all it was cut out to be.