Alexandria (4 page)

The next five days pass much the same as the first.

On the seventh morning, overwhelmed by fatigue and hunger, Jack is only remotely aware of the sensation of being lifted up and carried off. Sleep has been scant and tortured. He lies curled in a fetal position, the wooden bars digging into his sides, a prickly numbness spreading through his worn body. He stares in hopeless resignation as the beautiful panoramic vistas glaze by.

The terrain here is steep and the caravan cuts switchbacks through the scraggy brush as they climb the foothill. Their progress is slower today and the tired crew takes frequent breaks to unload their burdens and rest, panting and letting the slight breeze cool the sweat from their drenched bodies.

One of the men carrying Haylen’s pen loses his footing. There is a small cascade of dirt and rubble, followed by a dull thud as the cage hits the rocky upslope. Haylen lets out a startled screech, the first noise any of them have made all day. They are growing accustomed to their new reality, the futility of weeping having finally dawned on them. The men lift her off the ground and climb upwards.

After much grunting and heaving, they reach the pinnacle and lower the cages. Beyond the remote landscape the crisp gray line of the ocean collides with a pale blue sky. Most of the children have never seen the ocean before, some of the youngest have never even heard of it, and they regard it wearily.

They descend the hill as they climbed it, switchbacking relentlessly, hairpin turns creaking the wooden bars against the bindings and tipping the exhausted children at severe angles. They are cargo now, dead weight.

Down the hill and through more woods they trudge along. Jack is certain now that this expedition will never end, that he will live in this cage forever and never die, eternally roaming the forest in a tiny prison with the unrelenting glare of a maniac trained on him throughout. The last bit of adrenaline in his spent body fires off at this extreme notion and he scrunches his face tightly, trying desperately to stop existing.

The gradient levels off and he feels sunshine on his skin. He peeks at his surroundings, delirious, and what he sees makes him sit up and grip the bars, taken aback. They are parading down the center of a long straight passageway, overgrown with tall grass and shrubs, mounds of rubble rising up on either side. The piles are tremendous, flat-faced and angular. They do not look like natural rock. Crooked rectangles are cut through the stone and metal, dissolving away and collapsing, their shapes only just recognizable. A surge of realization floods his clouded mind.

This is the old world
.

This is what they have spent eerie nights around the campfire fantasizing about. He’s only ever seen glimpses. It floats by like a fever dream.

They cross an intersection and Jack looks down another long, linear grass field, lined with disparate heaps of wreckage that reel off into the distance, a few facades still standing against all hope. He tries to imagine them the way they were, tries to imagine machines swirling in the sky, to see people walking on these avenues in whatever fantastic clothes they might have worn, living their daily lives here, and he can only just barely. It all seems simply impossible.

Trees grow up through some of the ruins, their branches extending from the square openings and becoming part of the very structures themselves. They pass through a monumental shadow, cast down from the tallest building any of them has ever seen, ten rows of paneless windows extending upwards, ending in a jagged mess at the top. Deteriorating concrete held together by rusting steel, fragile as a house of cards, as though the whole edifice might shift in a strong gust of wind and crush their meek procession under an absurd pile of rubble.

Their cages are set down at the next cross street. Again two armed warriors crouch with weapons drawn and creep along the cracked facades, making their way down the neglected avenue. A family of boars root and scurry around the brambles down the next block, digging their snouts into the dense underbrush. A large male disappears through the overgrown doorway of a forgotten building, while the rest mill about and move further down the way. The warriors stay sleek against the broken walls, taking cover when they can find it.

As a half-grown female trundles across the street an arrow flies, silent and straight, penetrating her side just behind the shoulder blade. She lets out a horrid grunt and tries to scamper off around a corner. A second arrow pierces her hide and she slows, zigzagging a drunken weave. The other boars are running hectic, shrieking and grunting, terrified, their squeals an offense to the peaceful afternoon. The huge male stumbles out onto the avenue and surmises the danger. He shuffles hotly, then turns tail and tears off with the other stampeding boars.

Walking slow, nonchalant, the warriors encroach upon the dying hog and slice her open with a dispassionate jerk of the wrist. They drag her carcass back and the caravan proceeds, marching on as the day grows long.

The ruddy haze of dusk sets on them and they repeat their nightly ritual, circling the cages and building a camp. The fire’s orange glow plays a freakish lightshow on the crumbling ruins, their shapes seeming to morph before the children’s eyes. A few of them cower and shield themselves as the strange shadows form phantasms that dart and flicker, looking like specters of the old world come back from their fiery ruination to seek unholy revenge.

At first light, in the crisp morning, they move.

The traces of civilization become sparse, odd mounds here and there covered with weeds and field grass. The procession turns north. They wind their way through more ruins, squat moldering buildings with a few standing outliers, then struggle up a barely worn and treacherous path until they emerge atop the high plateau.

The Temple looms before them.

A monumental palace, built of smooth off-white sandstone, enormous blocks nearly as tall as a man. Each ascending tier sets in a bit further, its tapered apex leveling off flat with a colonnade of redwood beams enclosing an ornate rooftop terrace. It cuts an imposing silhouette across the gorgeous natural landscape, stark and trapezoidal. Two wings branch off from the side, one of them still under construction, connected by high-vaulted arches formed by a labyrinth of trelliswork. Semicircles of palms radiate from the Temple’s grand entrance, framing a lavish staircase that fans out onto the grounds. At the head of the staircase, covered by a redwood portico, two enormous wooden doors stand wide open, large enough for a giant to pass through.

The plateau overlooks the misty valley, where the ruins of the old cities spread out below them in a fragmented grid. They march across the grounds. An elaborate garden encompasses the palatial structure, lush greenery, manicured trees and shrubs, with gravel paths meandering around the carefully arranged landscape. From the veranda at the base of the opulent staircase, a shallow reflecting pool stretches across the garden, its footprint expansive, its surface tranquil and cool. Several grooves funnel water through small fountains that trickle lazily in the afternoon sun.

There are people milling about. They do not scream and run for their lives when they see the murderous warriors approaching. They smile.

The children look apprehensively from their cages. The people gather around them, gawking through the slats at the grimy, terrified children curled up inside. A few of them wave. A handful of the children, bleary-eyed, wave back.

Jack peers out curiously as a man wearing a shirt of rough linen and simple black leggings jaunts down the staircase, surrounded by a small entourage, and strolls casually across the sandstone veranda, stopping frequently to greet people, moving always in the general direction of the procession.

There is now a chattering corridor on both sides of them, the throng collecting more new faces steadily. The children, independently, are each thinking roughly the same odd thought—
they all have such nice smiles
.

Small cottages are scattered about the gentle hillside, puffing out light smoke. Behind the Temple, built on the rise of the hill, is a broad sloping terrace with stone benches ascending up the natural rake of the terrain.

The cages are carried through an entrance just to the side of a broad, crescent-shaped stage. The heavy wooden door slams shut, leaving the giddy crowd outside—only the man in the linen shirt enters with them. He surveys the cages and moves about the warriors affably.

“Welcome back,” he says, softly embracing each man he encounters.

He looks in at the children, little more than a cursory glance, and they are all transfixed by his strange features. The man’s eyes are clearest blue, a trait lost to the Ages and rarely seen for many long centuries. The children did not imagine a person could be born with eyes of such a color, so bizarre and unnatural they seem.

The nursemaids carry their little baskets past him and he beams warmly at the infants, taking a few miniature hands into his own and playfully nuzzling them. The women give a swift curtsy and sweep their little bundles off to some other location, taking the smallest toddlers with them as well, and the man with blue eyes escorts them out.

The warriors set the cages down in the center of the cavernous room. Jack’s tormentor on the long voyage kneels by his side, tapping the slats with his knuckle. Jack is breathing deeply, hoping if the man aims to hurt him that he will get it over with quickly.

He grins, then slowly rises, holding Jack’s eyes with his own, then collars a fellow warrior and they hustle out of the chamber.

More stewards enter the holding area and start untying the ropes that lash the cages together. Their practiced hands make quick work of the task. A couple of them notice the shrouded form laid out on the cold stone floor and hurry to it, pulling back the cover and revealing the purple, death-frozen face beneath.

“Oh, Vallen, oh no,”
moans an old woman. “Oh, his poor mother. How did this happen?”

“This one here.” The warrior hits the slats. “This one killed him.”

Jack peers up earnestly from his cage.

The old woman’s mouth gapes wide, shocked as she looks on Jack in horror. Gradually her expression softens and she releases her suspended breath, regarding him now with something akin to pity.

“Well,” she resigns, “I guess that’s what you should expect from a boy raised by savages.”

Chapter Three

The stewards finish unknotting the bindings until the sides of the cages fall flat on the stone floor. When every one of them is liberated the children sit immobile inside, looking dully around, afraid of being set free.

“Come on, little ones,” says the old woman. “My name is Ezbeth. I’m going to help you. Come on, now.”

No one moves.

She kneels, her voice lilting. “I know you’re scared. It’s okay. That was a scary trip.” She frowns childishly. “It’s all over now. You’re safe. Don’t be shy, come on out.”

The stewards go from cage to cage, gently tugging on arms and legs, pulling the children out. Jack feels someone grab his upper arm and guide him from his foul smelling prison, his joints and thin muscles on fire, cramping as he tries to extend his body and stand up. He kneels shaking on the ground and a man places his hand gently on Jack’s bony back.

“You’re all right, there, boy. Take you’re time. You’re all right.”

Gradually they all manage it, taking slight steps like newborn fawn, glancing frantically around the room.

Braylon unfurls, steadying himself on the edge of his cage, and lunges at the nearest steward. His wasted body collapses and he is brutally thrust to the ground. A severe looking man with a square jaw straddles his back and digs his knees into his ribs.

“I wouldn’t do that, young man,” he says, his presence commanding. “We will lock you away and you won’t see daylight till this time next year.” He flashes militant eyes at the children. “Anyone else want to get violent with me?”

They shirk back and cling to the cold walls. He cautiously lifts his weight and stands, then offers Braylon a hand. Braylon looks contemptuously at the extended gesture while the tension chills the room. Slowly, he reaches up his hand and accepts the help.

“That’s good,” says the man. “If you can all learn some respect, we’ll get along fine here. Now, wasn’t that easy?”

Braylon stays silent.

“I said,
wasn’t that easy?”
he repeats, calmly and without malice.

“Yes,” Braylon whispers.

“Thank you, Nisaq.” Ezbeth sighs. “No more roughness, okay?” She looks around imploringly.

Lia shuffles up behind Jack and puts her arms around him.

“You killed that man?”

Jack only nods.

She looks at him with big scared eyes.
“I wish you killed them all.”
The words sound utterly surreal spoken from her delicate lips.

Ezbeth grabs Lia and guides her to the far side of the room while the stewards shepherd the children into two lines, boys and girls. Jack joins his line, standing by William and Aiden.

“Now listen,” says Ezbeth, “you must all be starving. The sooner you do as we say, the sooner you will be fed. Girls, you are going to follow me in just a moment, and boys, you will go with Nisaq. Do not speak, and do not touch anything. Your hands are filthy.”