Aquifer (5 page)

I
wake from a deep sleep, my nerves on fire.

I’m always nervous on this day, the day Father returns from the exchange. Not because I doubt him or his memory — the route is permanently fixed deep inside — but because of the Rats.

From the docks of Freemanl to the boroughs of Scarboro to banks of Garden Isle, rumors of the Rats spread in hushed tones. Speculation about their cruelty mixes with the knowledge that miles beneath our feet the hideous crawl around, and we rely on the hideous for every sip of water we drink.

Yes, the PM devised the system of diverters, the labyrinth that carries water to the four corners of the world, but those pipes are buried ten feet down, as low as most Toppers dare descend. Below that — below our feet — is the Rats’ domain. Mindless, soulless, and meeting with my father.

What if they eat him?

“What’s in the bags?” Walery asks, rolling over in Father’s cot. “They stink.”

The books remain stacked in the cellar. Their stench does not.

“It was supposed to be you,” I snap, and remember the bloated bodies from Seward’s boat. “I’m sorry. Just tense, I guess.”

Seward is long gone, and I shake my head, clearing it of worry about my father’s arrival, and the Ceremony of Rebirth where he will announce his success to the world. Four words from Seward take residence, alter the shape of my thoughts.

There is no PM
.

Seward is a liar, a thief, and a pirate. But his words didn’t seem to hold deceit. I’ll ask Father; during a break in the proceedings, I’ll ask him. He’ll know.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The PM,” I say.

“Does he impress you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”

“It’s good to question things like that. It’s good to question the leaders and the rules and the punishments.”

Toppers don’t say things like that, and I scratch my head. “You’re an unusual kid.”

Walery breaks into a big grin. “That’s what they said on the Bottom Floor.”

The Bottom Floor. We first heard about it as Sixes. Though the higher we schooled, the more the story slipped into myth. A floor beneath the ground? Beneath the Fives? Where the schooled kids never rose? The rumor was that those sent there stayed, year after year, their attitudes ill fit for the climb.

“So all those times I saw you on the way to school, you were heading … down? What did you do to end up there?”

Walery swings his legs over the edge of Father’s hammock and stares. “Two small crimes, really. I looked around, and I thought. That’s it.” He scoots forward. “Luca, don’t the controls feel wrong to you? The prohibitions, those wicked dials. I see your discontent. You feel it too — that we were made for more than a tame life. We were made to
feel
.”

I lean back and instinctively peek at the door, waiting for Amongus to burst in.

“Everyone on the Bottom feels this way?” I whisper.

“They have the potential to, so we’re watched, even encouraged.”

It makes no sense. “Encouraged to think like this? But why?”

“From what group do you think the PM’s Council of Nine is selected?”

I’d never given it any thought.

“There always must be nine, and even those on the Council eventually succumb to age undoing. When that happens, the PM must choose a replacement. Below, we are referred to as Feelers; we are the pool from which the Nine are chosen.”

I stand and pace. “But they were about to destroy you.”

“Yes. During the last Replacement, my agemate was chosen. It was no longer in their best interests to keep me. They had taught me too much.”

“Such as …”

He takes a deep breath. “Luca. L-U-C-A. Massa. M-A-S-S-A. They teach us to read, to scratch. If chosen for the Council, it is a necessary gift. If not, it is a sentence which leads to undoing.”

The smell of the books wafts up from the cellar. “So you can read. You can read any scratch, no matter how old?”

He cocks his head. “What do you know of reading?”

“Little. Listen, I need to go take my place at the ceremony. You need to stay here. I’m sorry for that, but when I return, we’ll talk, yes?”

Walery lowers himself down. “Yeah, let’s talk. You saved me, and I’ve been thinking of ways to repay.”

“You don’t need to —”

“I have an idea. I know your burden, Luca. I know what you will one day face. I likely know more than you do, as we are taught everything below. For instance, I know what you fear.”

“The Rats.”

“No,” he says. “Forgetting. Letting your father down. He’s entrusted you with the world. What if you dropped it? You would be heartbroken, yes, but more than that, you would look at your father and feel … ashamed.”

I scramble toward my dressing area and open my closet. With my back to Walery, I release one tear. He sees what he can’t see, what nobody can see.

“How do you know this?” I ask, but do not turn.

The floorboards creak, and I feel his hand on my shoulder. “The how doesn’t matter. This is where I can help. I can scratch the route down for you. Think of the relief. You would never forget. No more worries of shaming Massa.”

“But I can’t read.” I spin and face him.

“I’ll help you. I can teach you.”

I wipe my face. “I need to prepare.”

Walery steps back, and I pull the sheet between the two of us. There must be a PM to teach him all these things. How else could an Eleven understand?

I dress for the event that defines my life. My finest clothes, my most colorful shirt. For the next three days, emotions are
allowed. Wrinkles are allowed. We will rejoice for yet another year of life made possible by my father.

I open the door and glance back over my shoulder, first toward cellar steps, and then at Walery, resting again in Father’s hammock. He swings back and forth without a care in the world, his leg hanging lazily over the edge. He is far too comfortable in the Deliverer’s quarters.

So many questions for Father
.

I join the masses moving toward the Swan River. On its banks rises the amphitheater, and we will funnel through its creaking turnstiles. Once inside, nobody speaks. A quickly hushed cry, a nervous cough — these are the sounds of this moment, when wails of children are considered bad omens. A young wail from behind sets the somber on edge, and faces darken.

The amphitheater is old. Though patched and repatched with concrete, it still appears ready to crumble. It once housed the dark arts of this world, though that’s all the information I’ve received. Walery may know more. Once a year, fifty thousand cram through its gates. All those who do not fit will line the river, gathered at one of the many watching stations. Many purposely choose to view the ceremony on the screen; the tension inside is too much for them.

I don’t have that luxury.

I reach the theater and breathe deep. The Ceremony of Rebirth is the only event that brings together every citizen of New Pert. Only the young, those under five, remain far from the proceedings and under the Developers’ care.

I push through the gate, and whispers gather.

Sixteen
.

The next Deliverer is of age
.

The next Deliverer has come
.

My presence brings relief to the people, and I stride in practiced confidence to my chair directly in front of the Birthing tunnel. It stretches down to the Swan, and from it Father will soon emerge.

Father’s boat is certainly already anchored at the tunnel’s far end. One glimpse of his face, the folding of his arms, and Holiday will begin. I’ve come to hate the event, the attention, my place in front of the crowd, but this year I can’t wait. I have so many questions. Prophecy questions. PM questions. Walery questions.

Most of all, there is the big stash of books I long to give him.

I assume my seat and the whispers vanish. Above the tunnel, a large clock marches off the time, each tick amplified in the vacuum of this occasion. It’s five of eleven, too soon for a return, but already the crowd bristles. They should know that even if Father returns early from the exchange, he will pause at the tunnel’s entrance; he must emerge between eleven o’clock and eleven fifteen.

The clock is all there is … that and the fountain. I peek to my right. Standing atop the granite block, a cloaked man stretches out marble hands, and from his palms water spews. The symbol of every Topper’s hope, this is the only fountain allowed in the city, and it never runs dry.

Thanks to Father.

The clock clicks eleven. Tension fills the theater, and I fix my eyes on the timepiece. Only once did Father emerge at eleven. What would be the fun in that? When the task falls to me, I won’t be so predictable. Perhaps I’ll race out at ten o’clock, or linger until noon. Maybe I’ll tweak the signal of success. Cross my fingers or cross my eyes.

I stare down at my hands. With each click of the minute hand, whispers grow. After twelve minutes, I shift, and a grown woman cries.

I squint into the tunnel. In the distance, a shape appears. I stand and approach, and the tension breaks. Behind me, the crowd sighs and cheers, their voices connected to my steps. The floor shakes and rumbles as all rise to join me in welcoming Father.

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
.

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.