Aquifer

  The clock clicks 11:16. The figure appears, and silence falls. A chilly, confused silence.

  It’s not Father.

  But it must be my father. I glance over my shoulder and force a smile, to let them know it’s all right. But the truth forces the smile away and I stumble back to my chair.

  It’s an Amongus. One without a dial.

  It’s Mape.

  Sobs and screams fill the theater. The Amongus raises his hands for silence, and quickly receives it.

  “New Pert, World, I bear good tidings from Massa.” He folds his arms over his chest. He nods toward the camera, as my father would, and proclaims, “The world is again reborn!”

  Something is wrong. No cheers accompany this moment.

  It’s not my father.

  “It was an excruciating exchange for our Deliverer. Wrong turns were made. An exhausted Massa authorized me to deliver the comforting word. He will be available to speak after his recovery.”

  He doesn’t make wrong turns.

  “Where is Massa now?” a lone man calls from a back row, giving voice to my heart.

  “He is resting comfortable on the PM’s isle. However, the PM has made a decision. The PM, the one whose wisdom has created the comforts we enjoy, the upholder of peace in this world …”

  He continues, reciting the words we recite each morning in school, and my mind wanders.

  Wrong turn? There are many things I hold against Father — his unwillingness to talk of my mother, his unwillingness to tell me why I feel so Other. He alone could understand the pangs of loneliness that strike.

  But a wrong turn? His dedication to the route makes this impossible.

  “… this great man has determined that Massa’s time as our Deliverer has come to an end. Massa’s errors have shown that the burden has become too great to bear. Yet the Fates have smiled on us and our children, because as one Deliverer rests, another has emerged. The new Deliverer is of age!”

  From out of the tunnel march three more men. They approach my chair. “Come, Luca.”

  I glance beyond them into the tunnel. “Where is Father? None of you have the right to use the Birthing tunnel. Only a Deliverer may walk it.”

  One lifts me by the shoulders and spins me around. “World, behold your new Deliverer!”

  I look over the confused crowd, their faces a reflection of my own. One by one, they reach out cupped hands.

  And it sinks in. A different, more terrifying exchange has just been made.

  “No,” I yell. “My father is your Deliverer, he’ll be fine following his rest.” More hands stretch toward me. “When has he ever failed you?” I turn to the nearest Amongus. “Where is he? Where have you taken him?”

  “Smile for the world,” he whispers. “Your father is undone.”

  I shake — a tremble that weakens my legs and speeds my heartbeat. The world starts to spin, and I break free from his grasp and run into the tunnel.

  “Father Massa! Father, where are you? Please … please …” I’m quickly surrounded.

  A face blurs through my tears, an Amongus, but I don’t care that he watches me weep. “Luca, we need you now. After your schooling is completed, we will take you to the PM for the official transference of all that belonged to Massa, but for now, your face must hold steady. The world looks to you now. You, Luca. You may mourn later without consequence. Do you understand?”

  No, I don’t! My head swims, while I slowly nod.

  There is no PM. I’m hiding books. Father is undone.

  Outside, the crowd chants my name.

  I am the Deliverer.

  CHAPTER

  9

  I spend the day of rejoicing resting in the Graveyard with Old Rub.

  “Father’s gone. Walery is nowhere to be found. I’m sure they extracted him during the ceremony.” I splash the water with my fist. “Look at me. I can’t even rescue one boy. How can I provide for the world?” I exhale hard, and lie back on my thinking rock. High above, one small cloud moves in front of the sun, and I’m bathed in shadow. “I think this shanty falls to me.”

  Old Rub is still, wondering it seems, her feet treading gently in the water.

  “You know how I told you to leave? Forget that, okay? I don’t know what I’d do here alone.”

  Where is the ache, the one that should fill me? Yes, there was shock, and maybe it still numbs my mind. But shouldn’t I miss Father more? Instead, I feel for me.

  I glance at my home, slip off the rock, and swim to shore. I clamber up onto the dock, and run my hands across the boards where Father used to sit. Such a lonely life. It is one thing to feel Other. It is far more painful to feel it completely alone. I scoot forward on the decking and swing my feet as he had, letting the hot afternoon sun bake me dry. Outside the gate, on the street, beat the unique sounds of Water Day — shouts and squeals, buoyed by water and ale that flow in equal measure. There is no line before the water mission, not during Holiday. Water is free, abundant. Firecrackers whistle, children laugh — the one time all year they are allowed to do so.

  Your father is undone.

  For me, there can be no rejoicing.

  “Cheer up.”

  Lendi stands on the beach. “You look awful. Or is this the new expression of the highly exalted Luca?” He jogs out to me and cups his hands. I slap them down.

  “Come on, then.” He gestures with his head. “Fireboomers at the wharf tonight. Maybe your father would enjoy them. People long to wish him well. So many want to offer him their thanks.”

  “Lendi, I …”

  What would happen if Lendi knew? Questions would flow and my answers would spread.

  How was Massa undone? I don’t know.

  Did he even finish the exchange? I don’t know.

  “I don’t think Father would enjoy them.” I blink hard. “I’m not feeling well myself.”

  Lendi nods and shrugs. “A strange ceremony today. My father says it’s for the good. He says Massa was close to breaking and that it’s your time. And to think, I am the Deliverer’s best friend. I should receive something for that.” He backhands my shoulder. “Let’s go inside. Nobody should spend Holiday alone.”

  I follow my mate off the dock and through the front door. Lendi whips around, his shaking hand raising to his lips.

  “That smell. I’ll never forget that smell.” He grabs my shoulders. “Tell me you destroyed them.”

  My mouth opens, flops shut, and opens again. “Okay, I destroyed them. There, in the corner, are the balled-up clothes I wore. I’m sure their odor still fills the shanty.”

  Lendi walks over and bends down. He breathes in and his face relaxes. “Yeah, they stink. Thank you. You don’t know how tormented I would’ve been.”

  He glances around the room.

  “Where’s your father? I should think he’s back from the isle by now, and I’d like to thank him for his years of facing the Rats.”

  Clearly, he’s not recovering upstairs, and my mind races. “On hot days, he rests in the cellar, where it’s cool.”

  Oh no, Luca, you fool.

  “Now that you mention it …” I round Lendi’s shoulder with my arm and pull him toward the door. “Let’s go see those boomers and let Father rest.”

  “Yeah, but I bring gratitudes from my family.” Lendi steps outside and returns with a long coat. New Pertian red, inlayed with a gold sunrise on the pocket — the PM’s mark. “Father can’t remember a time when Massa wasn’t his Deliverer. He’s been hard at work on this garment for months. He received special permission to use the mark.” Lendi admires the symbol. “Father says it’s his finest work ever.” Lendi holds it up to himself. “Maybe someday I’ll make one for you.”

  My mate is so proud; I can’t take that away.

  “It’s handsome, and Father will be pleased to wear it.”

  Lendi gently folds the leather. “I promised my father I’d pass this on, and report the look on Massa’s face when he sees it. I’ll be quick.”

 
“Wait, Lendi.” I reach for his arm. “Do you trust me? That there are times when my father should not be disturbed? This is one of them.”

  Lendi thinks for a moment, grins, and pulls free. “Good to know. I will only disturb him a little.” He bounds down the stairs.

  Five minutes pass, then ten. Finally, Lendi climbs the stairs, his face blank.

  “Do I trust you, Luca? You can ask me this? You lied to me. You brought the cave to your home.” His chin quavers. “When they are found, and they will be found, what am I to do?”

  “You were never to know, mate. They, like that coat, were to be a gift for Father. I never meant you harm.”

  Lendi whips his gift onto the heap of musty clothes. “Don’t call me mate.”

  In a moment, I am again alone, but this alone feels deeper. There is no father and there is no friend and neither will return.

  There is only me.

  And a turtle.

  In time the revelry ends, and New Pert slips back into itself. Tight-lipped greetings and hushed talk blanket the streets. Occasionally a child, still loopy from Holiday, runs or hollers. Time will train this out of them.

  I enter school the next day, and it feels different, as I feel different. I will climb to the top floor, but that isn’t it. It’s the weight, the sliver in my mind, the task I will perform not sometime, but next year. If I fail, every face I now see will perish of thirst.

  Why did this curse fall to me?

  I start the spiral, all the while thinking of Walery. There is no doubt I will see him soon — during the next march of the undone. This time, Barker will remain until Walery pushes off. I glance down, but see no doorway to the Below, no hidden entrance missed all these years, and I bump into a group of Twelves.

  “I’m sorry. My fault,” I say. They cup their hands and back away.

  Right. The separation between the world and me is now complete. I belong nowhere.

  I peek up and see a familiar figure. Lendi!

  I push through the ascending crowd and reach his side. He clears his throat and cups his hands.

  “Knock it off, mate. It’s me, Luca. To you, always just Luca.”

  “Yes, Deliverer, as you say.”

  He turns into the Fifteens’ room. I stand statued in the doorway and watch him take his seat. His gaze fixes on his dial. It wiggles, and he flashes a desperate glance my way. I have no words of comfort.

  Emile does. “Calm now, Lendi.”

  A pleasant Fifteen, she reaches over and strokes Lendi’s shoulder. He recoils at her touch.

  I slump and traipse higher.

  I have ruined his life.

  CHAPTER

  10

  You 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.”