Frustrated, I banged at the door and found it had no play in it whatsoever. Hitting it was like knocking on a brick wall. The window was pretty much the same. What the heck was going on?
I tried breaking through one of the side walls. The stuff looked like plaster or sheet rock, but felt like stone. The opposite wall proved no better. I paced like a captive animal.
I felt this burning potency build in my chest. I don’t know where it came from, but my will had some real oomph behind it now, and I wasn’t going to waste it on glass giraffes.
“Goddamnit!” I smashed my fist into the door and this time it made a deep indentation, but the thing was, the dimpling began even before my fist ever hit, as if it were flinching in anticipation of being struck. I stood there and watched the tiny strands wriggle into the dent to reclaim it.
I let the hatred flare in me, letting my passions stoke it like pitch pine tossed on a camp fire. My hate rose up against all the nasty roots that dared thwart me. And as that feeling grew, I channeled it down the length of my arms.
The surface flaked away, curling out from the center like the pages of a book under a blow torch. Layer after layer peeled back until I had made a six inch deep pit in the wall. Frayed edges reverted back to roots and retreated, making the hole even wider.
Light began to filter through the paper thin layers remaining. I kept at it until I burned all the way through and I was peering through a hole the size of my fist.
I pressed my face close and looked out to the center of the square. The big tree was gone and the obelisk was back. Now that I knew St. Peter’s Square, I noticed its resemblance to the ‘Burg, but Luther’s creation was a crude echo of the Piazza San Pietro, embraced by arcs of quaint townhouses instead of Grecian columns.
The central platform looked vacant. I could see no sign of Luther. People clustered in small groups on the cobbles here and there. And I caught a glimpse of some animals—wolves?—running in formation. Wolves?
I went back to work on the hole, which was already trying to heal itself. I held my palms together like a Buddhist praying and extended them into the hole as if I intended to take a swan dive. I wanted these damned roots out of my way and let them know it. When I pulled my palms apart, the hole widened as if my hands were hot blades carving through butter.
When I saw the roots surrounding the hole their integrity and sag, I thrust my head through the gap before they could rally, wriggled my shoulders through and dropped into the garden on the other side.
This damned wall was probably the reason Karla wasn’t in her dome. She was probably stuck out here in the square with the others.
The pack of ‘wolves’ came running toward me. As they neared, I could see they were just German Shepherd dogs, but their strides and leaps were weirdly synchronized. They barked together in perfect unison.
A woman trotting behind them let out a piercing whistle and they all pulled up, circled back together and formed a straight line facing me, like some kind of canine circus act, going from frenzied to calm in a flash as if a switch had flipped in their heads.
“James?”
The woman was Astrid and she was carrying this bulky tube-like contraption looked sort of like a gnarled bazooka. She gaped at the hole I had made in the door, the gap already partially filled as roots crept and swelled to plug the breach.
“How did you get through that wall? Luther made it … impenetrable.”
“Um … guess not.”
“But how?”
“I just did that … weaving … thing.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off those dogs. Their tails swished in unison. Whenever one moved its head, they all did, in time and exactly the same way. They reminded me of those street performers who danced with puppets lashed to frames that transferred every move.
Only one dog—the lead dog, I assumed—had its eyes fixed on me. The others had their heads angled the same way, but their parallel sight lines had them looking off into empty space.
“What’d Luther do? Make them all share one brain?”
“They are his eyes and ears,” said Astrid. “They won’t hurt you, as long as you do what they say.”
“What they say? You mean they talk?”
“Intruder, identify yourself!” said the dogs in a chorus of flat, tinny voices. It was like they had cheap speakers implanted in their muzzles.
“Freaky!”
“They pass Luther’s messages, collect information and enforce his edicts. You’d better tell them who you are.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“James. This is serious. They can and will hurt you if they consider you a threat. I only have limited control.”
I shook my head. “German Shepherds, really? Luther’s so … lame.”
“James, please. Be respectful. Your words will be reported back to him verbatim.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Okay … um … hi … uh … doggies, and uh … Luther. I’m James Moody, but you already knew that.” I reached out my hand to what I took to be the alpha dog. They all lurched away in synch and growled at me.
“This is nuts. What’s going on? Why are all the doors sealed?”
“Luther has declared a maximum alert. An attack is imminent, he says.”
“From … what? Reapers?”
“Victoria.”
“Huh? Why would she attack? She has absolutely no interest in us.”
Astrid shrugged. “I trust his judgment. Luther knows this world. He’s been here a long time. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?”
I sighed and picked some stray bits of root off my shoulders and looked out over the square. “You seen Karla?”
“Not since you were last here.”
“Really?” My spirits sagged. “What about Lille? Bern?”
“They’re around … somewhere … out on the plaza with everyone else.”
“What’s going on over there? Looks like a fire drill.”
“We are no longer allowed beyond the walls. Every building has been placed off-limits … except for the chapel.”
“What about folks in the tunnels? How are they supposed to get in?”
“They’re not,” said Astrid. “That’s the point. Luther says if you’re not already here or you don’t enter the ‘Burg directly, you don’t belong.”
“But what if folks are stuck outside?”
Astrid shrugged. “It’s … too bad. We’ve already lost dozens. But Luther says it makes us leaner and stronger. It’s like winnowing, he says. We are losing only the chaff.”
“Fucking hell! Karla could be out there. And she’s not chaff.” Bile welled up in my craw. “If she’s out there … he’s got no right! I set my gaze on the stone steeple from which Luther had come once strutting in his centaur/scorpion mode. “I need to talk to him.”
“If you want an audience, you need to request one through Harvald. You can’t just barge in on him.”
“The hell I can’t.” I strode off across the square.
“James. No! It’s against protocol. The dogs … and I … can’t allow it.”
She whistled and the dogs sprang into a blur. They sprinted past me, wheeled about and blocked my way, hackles ruffled, fangs bared, snarling.
It annoyed the crap out of me. I wanted to turn them all into Yorkies, and the way I was feeling at that moment I probably could have, but I kept my composure.
“Call them off, Astrid.”
“I can’t.”
“Astrid, call them off! This is stupid. I just want to talk with him.”
Astrid took a long, deep breath. Her face had gotten all red and puffy. “Promise you won’t do anything … destructive.”
“I’m just gonna talk. One on one. That’s all.”
“Alright,” she said. “But you’d better not mention how you got through the wall,” said Astrid. “Or that I saw you do it.”
“I promise.”
She let out a long, looping whistle and the dogs settled back
down. “Stay!” she said. “Sit!” They all responded.
I hadn’t gone five paces when I heard claws clattering on stone. I turned to find the dogs trotting at my heels, tongues lolling, as if we were out for a walk in the park. They didn’t like me looking at them directly, but I caught enough glimpses to appreciate the craft involved in Luther’s creation.
They may have behaved like robots, but they looked quite real, down to the plaque on their teeth, the froth on their tongues and the crust in the corners of their beady eyes. Luther must have been intimate with a German Shepherd on the other side to have replicated them in such unflattering detail. They probably even had doggie breath.
I reached out to pat the closest one the head. Every dog whipped its head around and snapped in my direction. The one I tried to pat nearly took off my fingers.
People rose up on their feet and gawked as we passed the obelisk. Astrid kept her distance as if she didn’t want to be associated with me. She was probably embarrassed about shirking her duty. I hoped that what I was doing wouldn’t get her into trouble.
A whistle peeled out across the cobblestones, but it wasn’t Astrid and it wasn’t intended for the dogs. It was intended for me. I turned to see a brown bowler hat waving above the picket fence in front of Bern and Lille’s garden.
I changed course and ran over to the fence. “Bern!”
“Hey-hey! I told Lille you’d be here. You’re one of us now.”
“James?” Lille opened the garden gate, her face alit with delight. She came over and gave me a hug, with Bern close behind her.
“Come!” said Lille. “Have some tea.”
Their belongings were spread all over their garden in heaps and rows. I sat down with Lille at a little, round table. Bern served tea from a little brass kettle before taking a seat beside her.
The dogs arrayed themselves just outside the fence and were peering through the openings between the pickets. Astrid came over and stood behind them.
“Astrid! Don’t just stand there with those dogs,” said Lille. “Come sit with us.”
“I can’t,” said Astrid. “I’m on duty.” She looked down and blushed.
“It’s so good to see you, James,” said Bern. “I take it things are bad on the other side, eh?”
“You might say that.”
“Bern! You know better than to ask the boy such a thing.”
“Just small talk, dear. We all know life is hell and then you die. I mean, that’s why we’re here.”
“He made it through the wall,” said Astrid, through the fence. “He was outside, and he made it in … by himself. Weaving.”
“Really?” said Bern. “That’s quite the feat! Oh, I’d love to see Luther’s face when he finds out.”
“Bravo!” said Lille. “You know, I might ask you to try your little trick on our cottage door. We had so little time to evacuate, I left some things inside I would dearly love to have.”
“Luther’s coated the walls with something positively devilish that we can’t even scratch,” said Bern. “Not a wisp comes loose even with the two of us working together. And normally, when we pair up, we’re fairly formidable.”
“We want out of the ‘Burg, by the way,” Lille whispered, her eyes flicking over to the fence. “As soon as possible. Things are getting quite inhospitable in here. And those damned dogs aren’t the least of it.”
“But where would you go?”
Lille’s eyes flicked over to the fence. “I can’t exactly say. Those dogs have sharp ears, you know.”
“Begins with a V,” whispered Bern. “And it’s not Vladivostok.”
“Bern! Shush!”
“We’ve tried to interest our friends in joining us, but they’re too frightened. They’ve seen what Luther can do to flesh.”
“Is he around?” I asked. “I need to see him.”
Bern shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s been days since he’s been out and about.”
“He rarely leaves the chapel these days,” said Lille. “Ever since Victoria, he’s gone totally bonkers with his paranoia.”
“What about Karla?”
Bern and Lille looked at each other. “We haven’t seen her since the lockdown.”
“Crap. Any chance she’s stuck outside these walls?”
“Oh, I would doubt that,” said Bern. “Karla’s a veteran. She enters the ‘Burg directly, just like us.”
“Unless … she’s backslid,” said Lille. “She was not herself after James last left.”
“You mean she’s … depressed?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Lille, pursing her lips. “She was bouncing off the walls.”
“And that’s … a bad thing?”
“It is if you want to maintain a stable residency in the Liminality,” said Bern. “Hope will kick and keep you out and it doesn’t take much. You just need to find life worth living. But a frail hope is worse than no hope at all. If you commit to life on the other side but things go badly and you end up here, you’ve lost control of your fate. You end up in the tunnels, easy pickings for the Reapers.”
“That’s a ‘backslide,’ in case you’re wondering,” said Lille.
“So basically, hope is a curse.”
“Not unless you can sustain it,” said Bern. “Most people on the other side seem to manage. It’s called ‘living.’ But Lille and I have nothing to worry about. We’re as hopeless a couple as there ever you’ll ever meet.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because on the other side, well … Lille … she’s in a coma and me … eh … I’m in prison … for life.”
They shared a spell of giddy laughter that left me feeling like I’d missed a punch line.
I stared at them, at a loss for words the tea cup quivering in my grip. I got up and went to the door of their cottage. I tried the knob. It didn’t budge.
“It’s no use, James. Everything’s sealed up solid.”
I focused all my attention on the tip of my right index finger and touched it to the middle of the door.
“Ooh!” said Lille, rising from her chair. “He’s going to show us how he does it!”
“No!” said Astrid, at the fence. “You’ve already breached one wall. I can’t let you breach another.” She pointed her weapon at me. The dogs gave a startled bark.
“Oh, put that bloody thing down, Astrid,” said Bern. “Honestly!”
I ignored Asrid, keeping my gaze fixed on the door panels. Under my fingertips, colors swirled and blanched, a frost-like haze accumulated, but no dents or erosions appeared, no fibers revealed themselves. My arm began to tremble from the strain. I gasped and let it fall limp.
“Shit,” I said.
“Try again, dear,” said Lille. “I could see something happening. It certainly would be lovely to get into the cottage. I left all of our quilts stacked on the bed.”
“Maybe three of us would be the charm,” said Bern, nodding to Lille. He and Lille stood on either side of me, one arm on my back, their outside arms extended, fingertips converging with mine.
“Step away from the door,” said Astrid. “I can’t let you do this. I’m sorry.”
Again, we ignored her and the faded, frosted patch spread slightly wider, and lingered slightly longer than before, but that was all we could muster.
I staggered back. Bern caught me before I fell.
“Crap! This means we’re stuck. And Karla ….”
Queasiness morphed into sheer anger.
“I need to talk to Luther right now.”
Chapter 31: Luther’s Lair
I marched out the garden gate, with Bern and Lille in tow. When Astrid saw that we were actually going through with my plan of confronting Luther, she and her German Shepherds made themselves scarce, sidling away into the plaza where the other guards were quelling some sort of commotion.
As we approached the church, a pack of huskies came bounding out of the vestibule.
“Oh crap. Not more dogs.”
They
wheeled around to face us, ears perked, snouts down, beady eyes watching us. When we came nearer, they stood up and formed a cordon on the steps.
“State your purpose,” they said in a tinny chorus.
Lille cleared her throat. “We’re visiting to the chapel to—”
“We’re going to see Luther,” I said, cutting her off.
The dogs howled. “Speaking the master’s name is forbidden!”
“It’s just a name.”
“Is the master expecting you?” said the huskies.
“Yeah, sure. Why not? He should be.”
Lille stepped forward. “We have come to pray. To … to the master.”
This, apparently, was just what the dogs wanted to hear. They trotted off the stairs and let us pass.
“Hah!” said Bern. “Who knew that Luth… um, Mr. L. … fancies himself a god?”
“Pfft. For someone of his vanity, it was inevitable,” said Lille.
We passed through thick, oaken doors twice our height. It certainly smelled like a church inside, a Catholic one, at least—all incense and resins and molten wax. Racks of burning candles lined several niches where a few people knelt, praying.
The pews were arranged orthogonal to the entrance, with an altar to the far left and some sort of baptismal font to the right behind the back most pews. Two simple doors flanked a larger, more ornate one clad in swirls of wrought iron, and opening into the wall opposite the vestibule.
Something about the décor seemed off, and then I realized that there was not a single Christian symbol inside—no crosses, crucifixes, angels, saints or cherubs. Nothing. This was a secular place. Even the stained glass bore only geometric patterns suggestive of no particular faith. There were no graven images of Luther, either, but that would probably be remedied with time.
“Fascinating,” said Bern. “I’ve never been in here, before. It’s like a journey into Luther’s skull.”
“Hallo?” called Lille. “Anybody home?”
“Lille! Shush! People are praying.”
There was a creaking from the pews. A few heads turned our way.
“Oh my,” said Lille, touching her fingers to her cheeks.
“Let’s find a pew and sort this out,” said Bern.