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The way the streets are packed full of people sweating in the summer sun reminds me of the battlefield, where we had been pushed so close together that when a soldier fell, their corpse landed on whoever was next to them. I've had trouble with crowds since then, but I am here today by necessity.
Today is the memorial.
It was Marcia's idea to honor the dead, and she planned the whole thing, picking the venue, the caterers, even the flowers. That was before we realized her wound was infected, before she started rotting from the inside out. Now she is part of her own memorial, another picture in a plain wooden frame, another soul sacrificed to kill Jackson.
So many people dead, but at least he's one of them. He's gone now.
I slip between the packed pedestrians, drawing in my breath so I don't brush against anyone. If I think too much about the people around me, I won't be able to handle it, so I fix my gaze on the ground and count my steps, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk.
On field trips in elementary school, we sang ?step on a crack, break your mother's back? as we walked, and there were always a few kids who would step on the cracks on purpose. Everyone thought they were cool.
As I walk, I feel someone's gaze on my skin, crawling like a line of ants over the knobs of my spine and along my collarbones. Unease curling around my ribcage, I stop, look up, scan the crowd. There's no one, just the bright, sweaty bodies of joggers and commuters and school children pushing in around me. My heart pounds; bile creeps up my throat. Everyone is too close.
Then, as I'm turning my head back down to the ground and retreating into my thoughts, two people step away from each other, revealing a face I thought I'd never have to see again.
Palms beginning to sweat, I push forward, trying to reach him, but the crowd swells shut. This can't be real. No no no no no no. People curse at me as I shove them aside. I don't care. When I reach the spot where I saw him, he's gone. Maybe it was just my imagination, I try to reassure myself. It was just a fear turned into a vision by the people pressing in around me. But I can still feel his gaze, prickling over my whole body.
Tipping my face up to the sky, I push my palms into my eyes, counting to four with each breath. I feel the crowd parting uneasily around me.
He's not real. I killed him, stabbed him through the heart, cut off his head, burned the parts of him in five different fires. I'm imagining things. Then a hand on my shoulder.
?If you were looking for me,? it's a voice that's all too familiar, smooth like a sea snake gliding over the ocean floor, ?you didn't look very hard at all.?
A sob builds in my throat as I uncover my eyes to see Jackson staring down at me, a cruel smile twisting his thin red lips, cutting across his face like a knife wound. His pale hair falls around his eyes. I swallow, ?You're dead.?
Jackson laughs, ?I've always wanted to fake my own death.?
I try again, ?You're not real.?
?Nope,? he holds out his arm, ?Pinch me. I'm very much alive.? He laughs when I recoil, and drops his arm to his side. ?Come on Brianna, think about it.?
I do think about it. How did we not see it before? Another sob tightens my throat. His soldiers didn't drop dead when I killed him, like the prophet said they would. They kept fighting for another hour until, finally, they all turned and retreated. ?Oh well,? we had said, wanting to bask in our victory and grieve for our dead, ?maybe the prophet was wrong.? But the prophet is never wrong.
Jackson must see the horror on my face, because he laughs again, ?You really didn't suspect anything?? He sounds incredulous.
I clench my fists.
?Silly you!? Jackson says. I creep my hand towards my dagger, sheathed and resting in the pocket of my hoodie beside my phone. ?My soldiers were sloppy. They didn't execute the plan very well. You should've realized it was all a fake.?
?What was the plan?? I ask him, hoping to keep him distracted.
?Oh it was simple. You really should have seen it coming. I was shocked when you didn't figure it out.? He reaches out and knocks on my head, smirking, ?You, with that brain of yours, should have figured it out. We had a shapeshifter take my place. When you killed him, I transmitted to my soldiers that they should retreat. As you may remember, they did not.? He winks, then frowns, ?It was very frustrating.?
My hand is wrapped around the hilt of my dagger, my fingers struggling to unsheathe it. ?But why didn't the shapeshifter change back when I killed him??
Jackson waves a hand through the air, grinning, ?A simple, often-forgotten piece of magic. Really, I expected more of you. You should have seen it coming.? He presses his finger to the tip of my nose, and I hold my breath, not daring to move, the dagger unsheathed completely. He leans close to me, ?And don't you dare pull that dagger on me here, Brianna. We're in the middle of the street.? He arches one eyebrow, ?The police don't know who we are. They don't know about magic, or our war. When I call them on you for pulling a knife on me, they'll still lock you up.?
I snarl, ?Alright, would you like to go somewhere more secluded to die??
?No, no.? Eyes bright with mirth, he flicks his wrist and smiles. ?Don't bother adding a stop to your trip just for me! I know you have someplace you're trying to go. Just bring me with you there, I don't mind.?
?If you think,? my spit flies into his face as I shout at him, ?that I'm going to bring you to a memorial for people you and your minions killed, then you are out of your mind.?
The crowd parts wider around us, people giving us wary glances and tugging away their children. Jackson laughs, ?A memorial? How quaint.?
The sobs that had built in my throat are gone, replaced by the rough texture of rage. ?You killed them!? I shout, pulling out my dagger and pointing it at him. I don't care what the people around me think. ?We wouldn't have to have the memorial if you hadn't killed them.?
He rolls his eyes, ?We're in a war. Killing is the whole point. And you and your kind killed plenty of my soldiers.?
?Your soldiers are brainwashed husks of human beings. They don't count.?
?Keep telling yourself that.?
I am aware that he is playing me. I know it, but I still launch myself at him, a howl tearing itself from my throat. Jackson laughs. The people around us scream and run, falling over in their rush to get away.
Jackson pulls out a dagger too, and it glints in the sunlight as our small blades hit each other. ?You have terrible duel etiquette,? he tells me, slashing at my wrist, ?you didn't even bow.?
I don't respond, biting my lip and blocking his blows. I feint left, then jab at his inner arm, near his elbow.
He dodges, ?Nice one.?
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. The sound spurs me on. If the police are going to arrest me, I want it to be for murder. I lunge and stab at his chest, twisting away from his blade. My increased furiosity changes him too, and the mocking smile falls from his lips, replaced by a snarl. His eyes gleam with hatred as he fakes high and then swipes low with his dagger, slicing open my leggings and opening the skin of my thigh.
I feel blood soaking the fabric of my pants and dripping down my leg, but I don't let it stop me. I slash a deep cut along the top of his bare bicep as he pulls his arm away.
The sirens blare louder. We've created a large gap in the crowd of people, who, though they don't want to be too close to us, all want to watch the fight unfold.
Jackson jabs his dagger toward my face but I swat it away and catch his wrist in one hand. His tendons flex under my palm. His other hand comes up and scrabbles at my face, pressing against my eyes and scratching long white lines over my cheeks. I slash blindly at his arm with my dagger while I bring my knee up into his groin. He grunts and pulls his arm away from my face to clutch his stomach.
Seizing my opportunity, I pull his dagger from his hand and toss it into the street, away from the crowd, and shove him down onto the ground, pinning him with my arm across his throat. He looks surprised, then smiles. ?You've got me,? he wheezes, his arms falling limp on either side of his head.
The police are here, sirens wailing behind me. ?Drop your weapon,? a man shouts at me, ?Put your hands in the air?
Instead I sink my dagger into Jackson's chest, feel the blood spurt onto my hand, watch the life drain out of his eyes. My heart pounds. His does not.
I extract the dagger and push it between his ribs another time. I realize I'm screaming. My tears fall onto his chest. I raise the dagger again--even though he's already dead, I want him to suffer--but before I can stab him any more, there is a bang, and a sharp pain in my back, and I slump over.
For a second, everything is black, but then I'm above it all, drifting away from my dead body lying on top of Jackson's on the ground, the dagger still in my hand. A policeman lowers his gun.
I have become another one of the souls sacrificed to kill Jackson, another corpse stacked up, but he's finally dead. I killed him for real this time.
The police swarm around our bodies, shielding us from the crowd's eyes, though they aren't as eager to watch us now that our blood is spreading across the pavement.
As I get higher and the scene below me shrinks, I wonder if my comrades will add me to the memorial.
Today, I saw the stars.
And it wasn't even the most amazing thing that happened.
I know that might not seem like that big of a deal to people, especially if they read this personal correspondence in a few hundred years. In fact, I kinda hope it doesn't. I know it wouldn't have made a difference a hundred years ago. I mean, I've read in history books that people saw the stars all the time before the Second Hundred Years war, before we went underground most of the time.
I think that's why I became a criminal journalist, just so I would have an excuse to come above ground and see the sky when my work mandated I go to a prison to interview someone. It didn't seem fair that the criminals of the world got to live on the surface, but then again, there wasn't much to look at. The surface of the Earth was a pretty big mess. It looked like pictures of Verdun, France from the First World War that I saw in a book: muddy hills, trenches, exploded artillery.
My journey to the surface this time began with catching, in an open tabloids page on a table, the mention of the newest Big Arrest by the Conspiracy Court. Most of my colleagues never paid attention to the tabloids, but I'd found more than one juicy lead that way I sat down at the table in the gloom of the subterranean library, dimly lit by gas lamps, to pour over the article. That was the beginning of my newest quarry: a Person so dangerous, the authorities had put out no information about him or her before the arrest, for fear that they would be scared into fleeing. I took the information straight to my boss, who told me he had heard whispers of extra security on the West House Prison.
"Be advised, Jim," he added, "I may have to make cuts in the future, so make this count."
Knowing his desire to keep his own salary high regardless of how many economic problems wracked our fragile system, I could readily believe this. My girlfriend, Jenna, was less enthused and complained for a week that I was threatening our livelihoods.
"Babe," I reasoned for the tenth time the evening I was to leave, "they're letting me visit the prison. Obviously this person must exist! And if I'm the first person to get the scoop, we'll be set up for a while!"
"Enough that we can finally buy that larger place?"
I sighed. I would've liked to use the money to apply to have a kid, but Jenna didn't even want to get married.
Although I felt guilty about it, I tried to forget her for a while as I rode the elevator to the surface, just like I tried to forget my boss's avarice and the suffocation of the underground city.
I held my breath as the elevator reached the last hundred feet before the surface. Though I knew that seeing the stars was unlikely, as the aboveground trains only ran in inclement weather as a safety precaution, I still hoped.
The outside world was an utter downpour.
I got on the train amid soldiers waiting for transportation to various outposts and forts. No one spoke to me, and I tried to avoid eye contact. Instinctively, I sought a seat near the window and focused my attention on the veil of rain. It wasn't until the first stop that the rain started to abate, but I was staring at the open air train platform, now spotted with puddles.
It was then that I had my first miracle of the night. At first, I thought it was a trick of the lanterns, but I somehow knew this was different. Blinking, I raised my face and looked up at the sky. There, like a diamond in a vein of coal, was a patch of navy sky studded with a handful of stars. Desperate to savor it, I pressed my hands and face to the window, hardly daring to blink until a cloud covered the hole and the rain resumed.
I sat enraptured the rest of the way until we stopped and one of the guards, an especially surly woman pushed her way onto the train and past the soldiers, demanding where Jim Griffith could be found. I stood up so fast that I banged my head on the cargo hold above the seats. My face reddened as I heard snickers, and the guard I knew all too well, Officer Bricker, fixed her icy gaze on me. My humiliation was solidified as I made my way down the aisle, over backpacks and pairs of legs that didn't care to move. She barely waited for me as I stepped onto the platform. In her dark uniform complete with shotgun, Bricker seemed to me like a grim apparition, leading me to the Hell of the ancient Christians. I shuddered involuntarily and hurried to catch up through the last outdoor checkpoint before being admitted to the fortress. The interior was well lit, but every surface was the same slate gray, and the guards were all cheerless
Officer Greely, the wiry man who worked the press desk, greeted me as I was scanned for all metals and passed into the boxy room for visitors. There were never many of these, but just now it seemed especially empty, a fact I commented to Greely.
"I'm surprised to see you inquiring so early. Most people don't even know about the New Arrest yet."
I gasped. No one had questioned this newest inmate? This could be the big break of my career!
"The fact of the matter is, no one knows for sure who this new arrest is,? he continued. ?Some of the guards are starting to think it's a hoax."
"Why?"
"A few reasons. The war isn't going well, for one."
I groaned. "The war is never going well!?
"Well, a New Arrest, a big one, would cheer people up, wouldn't it? And another thing; none of the men I know has a thing to say about this so-called New Arrest. Granted, the CC people did come with their black truck, and they left someone here, which isn't unusual, but that man is the only one who's allowed into the cell! He finished this monolog with a sigh and a signature on my press pass.
"I'll be allowed in, won't I?"
"I dunno," he said unhelpfully.
With an annoyed sigh, I turned on my heel to go back to the elevator. Once there I put my press pass in the card reader and pressed the top floor. A guard was waiting for me as I stepped off to pat me down again and ask questions about my business. When he heard I was there to see the New Arrest, he seemed surprised.
"Didn't think they were letting anyone in that cell block. Only the CC man left behind has been coming in and out.?
I followed his directions, showing my pass and answering questions to anyone who asked. Everyone seemed as surprised at my reason for being there, and I caught more than one piece of gossip on what crime the inmate had committed. I reached the hallway where the mysterious prisoner was supposedly held.
The largest man I'd ever seen sat on a plastic chair at the end of the hall. Behind him was a metal door with a wheel in the center. He was reading a newspaper as I approached and didn't even look up.
I cleared my throat. ?Excuse me, I understand there's a New Arrest here??
?What's it to you?? he demanded, still keeping his eyes on the paper.
?I'm a journalist with the 10th Underground City Newspaper,? I said, offering my press pass for his inspection. ?I've come to interview him, or her.?
?What is it you want to ask our friend??
?Just what they're in for, what their story is. You'd be surprised how much people want to read things like that. It takes their minds off the grim life around them, to know there are people who are worse off. Besides, I would think the CC, uh, pardon me, the Conspiracy Court, would be grateful for the information I could provide people, as a precaution for others to stay away from troublemakers.?
Without warning, he chuckled. I almost joined in with him, but my smile faded as he raised his head. The right side of his face had grooves that spread across the side of his face over his nose and underneath his left eye. Although his right eye was still in his head, it was glassy and unseeing. Apparently noticing my discomfort, his chuckled grew deeper, and he stood up to his towering height.
"That was a well practiced speech It must work when you're trying to worm your way into the cell of a con artist or a political assassin.? He wiped the tears from his good eye as I waited.
?What's your name?? he asked.
?Jim Griffith.?
?Well, Mr. Griffith, I'll make you a deal. You can interview the bastard, but you must let me read the article before anyone else, including your publisher. Only if I approve it can it be published, understand??
?Truly?? I asked, amazed at the simplicity of the request. ?I can do that!?
He smiled. ?Yes, you say that now, just like your predecessor from the 3rd Underground City Newspaper told me. But he couldn't bring himself to my standards.?
?There have been other journalists?? I gasped. ?All the guards acted like I was the first.?
?A few. They were brought in special by the Conspiracy Court, that's why no one told you they were here, they weren't around long. The last came at dawn yesterday to give me his little snippet. He failed, just like the rest.? He looked me up and down. ?You don't seem especially harmful, and if you made it this far, you mustn't be carrying any weapons.?
?No,? I answered self-consciously.
?Very well. You may go in.?
I was so happy I could've shouted for joy, but then he pointed one huge finger at me.
?Just so you know, Mr. Griffith, I don't believe you'll be able to write your little article up to my standards.?
?What are those standards? I'm sure I could.?
?They're simple. You mustn't frame the bastard as being innocent. In fact, you must insist upon insanity.?
My eyes widened in surprise. ?Of course they can't be innocent! They're in prison aren't they? But is the insanity necessary??
Again, his awful smile spread across his face. ?Mr. Griffith, if you go into this cell convinced of anything less than insanity, you're liable to be brought around to other ways of thinking.? He bent over me and lowered his face to mine. ?This prisoner has convinced your predecessors of all manner of things.?
I gulped. ?Are they unstable??
He shrugged and snatched up a lantern. ?Unstable is as unstable does. Come.?
I was about to protest, but the wheel was yielding to his powerful grip with a screech, and the door opened to a dark room. When we were both inside, he closed the door, encompassing us in a small room before pulling out a ring of keys. One was inserted into a lock in the opposite wall and turned, followed by four more, and at last something like a large latch clicked. A door on yet another wall opened to a room of total darkness, and the CC guard pushed past me with the lantern. Still afraid, I followed him, and as I crossed the threshold, I was dumbfounded by the sound I heard.
?Mr. Maklary!? a young, girlish voice rang out. ?Have you brought me another visitor?? The tone was cheerful, almost excited.
I squinted in the darkness of the windowless room and saw a toilet and bed in one corner. As my gaze moved, I saw in the darkest corner, a slight figure standing on a little stool, having turned from the wall. It came into the light, and I saw it was a girl of no more than twelve, pale and in a shapeless gray dress. Her feet were bare and her blond hair fell over her shoulders in unbrushed tresses. She seemed utterly pathetic but for her face. I looked down on that little oval, set with gray eyes and cheeks which, if they weren't so emaciated, might have been plump. None of that seemed to matter, however, in light of her smile. Never in all my life, not even in the face of my parents, had I seen such a warm expression. She looked at me like I was the only person in the world, like I was a hero.
With unaccountable friendliess, I smiled back and even bowed my head. Maklary eyed me strangely, but I paid no heed as he withdrew, leaving the lantern behind.
?Hello,? she said, extending a hand up to me. ?You must forgive him, I don't think he was raised properly. My name is Mary Redgrave. And you??
I managed to find my voice and respond
?Jim, is it?? she repeated, her smile growing. ?My father's name was Jim! Well, please sit down, Mr. Griffith. I am sorry you are brought to this trouble, but at least we can have a little chat.?
Taking the lantern, she went to the corner for the stool and brought it forward, motioning for me to sit like I was paying a social call. However, my eyes went to the corner that were now better illumined by the lantern. I saw strange markings on the wall, especially where she had been standing and went to study these. It seemed she had used something to carve the same simple thing into the walls anywhere there was space. It was a straight line like an I, followed by the numbers 1 : 20.
?It's a reminder,? she said, reading my thoughts. ?It's easy to forget things in the darkness.?
I looked back at her, confused, and saw she was still inviting me to sit.
?What did you mean about it being trouble, Miss Redgrave?? I asked, taking up the stool.
Her face grew sympathetic. ?I know you're here because none of the others succeeded in writing about me, making me seem insane and all. And I can see in your eyes you're kind, so you won't do the same. You'll try to tell the truth, and they'll shut you up.?
I was growing more astonished by the second. ?So you're not insane??
She actually laughed. ?No, Mr. Griffith! I've been put in here for a simple reason; I have hope. I dream of things beyond this dreary life, and this world hates that. I told others about my dreams, and this world fears that, so they shut me inside stone walls.?
?So you haven't committed any crimes??
Mary shook her head. ?I was happy, so I started telling people about my happiness, and the authorities didn't care for it.?
?But I don't understand! What did you preach? Anarchy??
Again she laughed, and it was such a pleasant sound I smiled. ?No. Since I was a child, I've had this dream that the world needn't be such a dark place. I don't know precisely why I feel this way, but I just started telling people how I felt, how I was sure there was something more to life than what is happening now. I suppose that's what they feared.? Her face now grew sad, a terrible sight. ?I just wanted to give people hope, and maybe find some answers. But they're afraid of that. They didn't even believe me when I described the stars to them.?
My eyes widened, and she saw it.
?You've seen the stars?? she asked eagerly.
?Yes!? I cried forgetting where I was. ?On my way here! I've waited all my life to see them, and I got my first glimpse!?
This young, strange prisoner closed her eyes and smiled. ?Aren't they like nothing you've seen? I look up at them, and I can't help but feel that somehow, my life will one day have meaning.?
?You've seen them more than once??
Mary opened her eyes. ?Oh yes. I didn't live underground after I told my parents about my dreams. We left our city and went to the mountains. It was cold, but you could see the sky.?
Whether it was my expression or whether she truly had some sight beyond the lives of men, this child came toward me and took my hands, regarding me with such intensity I could not look away.
?Jim, listen. I will probably never get out of here. They might kill me, or they might keep me in the darkness until my dreams stop. I don't know. But I can see you have the same hope I do I think you ought to return to them. Return to the stars, Jim, for yourself, and for me.?
The events that followed passed like nothing in my life ever had. I bid her a regretful goodbye and fairly ran from that place. Without a second thought, I went to a filling station and bought supplies for myself and a train ticket until the end of the line. During my long trip, I wrote a telegram to Jenna which I hoped she would one day understand, and an article which I knew Marklary would never let see the light of day.
After many days, I found myself with the mountains in the distance. It was dangerous and foolhardy, but I set out toward them through rain and gloom. Instead of boring into the earth, I climbed it, taming it to my will, until I stood before the night sky in all its glory, without a single cloud. There, I saw the stars, and all at once, I knew hope.
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