Morningside Fall (5 page)

N
ight had fallen over Morningside, and with it came an uneasy sort of quiet without any peace. The kind of quiet that made Wren think of waiting in the clinic – when everyone was just sitting there not talking, and he knew he had to get a shot – and the whole time it felt like nobody was talking because they were all too busy thinking about how much it was going to hurt. The whole city felt like that to him now, like all those people were just out there, waiting. Waiting and thinking about how much it was going to hurt.

When he’d first come, Morningside had seemed so clean and perfect. All clean lines and smooth curves, and room enough for everything, and everything right where it belonged. After just a few days inside the wall, it was hard to remember how broken everything was beyond it. Broken, and dirty, and never enough of anything – except the stuff you didn’t want and too much of that; too much cold, too much hunger, too much fear.

But not here. Not inside. There were wide roads, all smooth without any cracks or holes, and lights all along the sides so you could walk from the governor’s compound to the main gate and back without ever stepping on a shadow if you wanted. And shops all along both sides, where you could find just about anything you wanted. Places to get all kinds of foods, foods Wren had never even been able to imagine before he came here. Stores that only sold beds, with so many inside the first time he’d seen one he asked the owner if the whole city slept there. And the owner had just laughed and laughed and patted him on the head like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. And there were shops with clothes that were brand new that no one else had ever worn, and they’d make to fit you, no matter how small you were for your age.

Even the people, the people seemed like they’d been made with the city, at the same time, by the same hands. All clean and gracious and never touched by anything sad. At least that’s how they’d seemed when he’d first come to Morningside. Now Wren knew how it was, though. He’d gotten a really good look for himself. People were still people, no matter how good they had it. They always brought the broken in with them.

Wren hadn’t been out at night in a few days, and hadn’t been outside the wall in, what was it… almost three months now? Not since the night he’d snuck out through the secret tunnel that ran from the compound to a hidden place outside. The night he’d felt like if he stayed in the compound another minute, his insides would’ve gotten all crushed down, and Wren would never have been able to breathe ever again. The night he’d woken Painter.

Mama had been mad about that; mad about him sneaking out, mad about the gashes he came home with, all along his ribs. Madder than Wren could ever remember seeing her. And North had just shaken his head and said he was disappointed, and that had hurt the worst. But they’d rescued Painter – Wren and Mouse and Able – and then, they’d gone back out and found him and brought him in, and that had made it all worthwhile. Painter was a good friend; kind and generous. Almost like an older brother. A good older brother. Not like the other kind.

And now Wren had to take him heavy news. It’d taken all of Wren’s powers of persuasion, but he’d finally managed to convince his mother to let him leave the compound on his most solemn vow that he’d go only to Mister Sun’s Tea House and come straight back when he was done. Only Able accompanied Wren, to avoid attracting the attention that his usual contingent of guards would’ve drawn; Able had done all the convincing on that one. Well, only Able was right there with him. There were others, others walking ahead and others walking behind – Mouse and Wick and Gamble, always watchful. And Wren was pretty sure that Mama was out there somewhere, keeping her distance and keeping an eye on them. She’d gotten better at hiding herself from him since… since she woke up.

Able had taken him in a meandering path, spiraling out from the governor’s compound and throughout the city. There were fewer people out on the streets, as Able had said. Since the night of the attack. For the most part, those they passed nodded silent greetings or ignored them, and Able was cautious about letting anyone trail them for long.

After about twenty minutes into what was normally a ten-minute walk, they finally reached the Tea House. Wren felt Able’s hand on his shoulder, turning him gently.

Five minutes,
Able signed.
If he won’t come, we leave without him.

Wren nodded.

And don’t take off the hat.

Wren nodded. He hated the hat. It was round and flat, with a low brim and a stupid orange fluffy ball on top of it, but apparently a lot of kids his age wore them. Well, not his age. Kids his size. Younger ones.

Able held out his hand, and Wren took it, and together they went up the steps into the Tea House, hopefully looking to any casual observer like a father and son out for a quick cup of Mister Sun’s famous Dreamtime Blend. Wren was nervous, knowing the coming conversation wouldn’t be easy, and knowing no one else could have it but him.

But the instant they crossed through the door, Wren felt himself relax, like he was crawling back into a warm bed on a cold morning. Mister Sun’s Tea House was just like that.

The main room was a little dimmer than Wren’s eyes were used to, even coming in out of the night. It was lit mainly by little flickering lights placed all around that looked like something Mister Sun called candles, except real candles used real fire, he said. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. And Wren’s favorite thing: there was a wide pool with a little bridge over it, and real fish swimming in it. There was a fountain that fed the pool, made to look like a little stream, and another one going out the other side, so that the stream went around the entire central room – and the sound of it always gave Wren the impression of rain on a roof. It was a drowsy atmosphere, with a low drone of quiet conversation and the soothing scents of tea and herbs and honeyed cakes drifting through.

Mister Sun came over to greet his newest customers, like he did for every single one, hunched over with his crooked back and always his smile. “Hello, my friend,” he said, beaming. Mister Sun called everyone “my friend”. “Hello, so good to see you, my friend!”

When he got close, he gave a little start as he recognized Wren, and his eyes went to Able, who shook his head ever so slightly. Mister Sun nodded, hardly missing a beat, and held out his good hand to direct them towards an empty table towards the back.

No one actually knew what Mister Sun’s real name was, but Aron had told Wren that back a long time ago, when he first opened the Tea House, some woman had said he was the city’s night-time sun, and eventually everyone just started calling him that.

He escorted them through the main room, his warm patter comforting everyone he passed, reassuring them that absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was going on. “We have seven teas tonight for special, only seven, I’m so sorry, my friend, but maybe tomorrow night you’ll come earlier?” He chuckled. “Out past bedtime, yes? Does Mother know? Boys’ night out, is it? Or,
ha ha
– boys snuck out while Mother has girls’ night out, I bet! I bet so, my friend, I bet so!” Though Mister Sun was friendly with everyone, he was truly a friend to the Governor, and doing a masterful job of covering Able’s silence with a rhythm of his own words that implied more than was actually there. A casual listener would’ve assumed there were two sides to the one-sided conversation, the soft-spoken father’s responses lost to the gentle hum of the room.

“Here you are, my friend,” he said, pulling a chair out for Wren. “Dreamtime as usual? Excellent, and for Father?”

We need to see Painter,
Able signed.

“Two Dreamtime, very fine, very fine.” Mister Sun nodded. He bowed slightly, smiling all the way, and drifted easily towards the back room. “My friend, drink up and go home before Wife comes to find you!” he said to some regular at another table, earning a good-natured chuckle. He disappeared through a swinging door.

Wren kept his eyes on the table in front of him, drawing little figure eights with his index finger on the smooth, polished surface. Trying to think of what to say, how to say it.

A few moments later Mister Sun glided up to table with a tray balanced expertly on the back of his withered left hand, a small pot and two matching handleless mugs upon it. As he arranged the items on the table with his other hand, he leaned closer to Wren, as if listening intently.

“To see how we blend?” he said. “Of course, my friend, of course, if it is OK with Father?” Able nodded, and held up five fingers. “Five minutes. Yes, yes, come with me.” And Mister Sun stepped back, took Wren’s hand, and led him casually back to the back room, conveniently shielding Wren from the other customers by bending in front of him, talking the whole way. “I think you will find it very interesting, my friend, very interesting, and you can surprise Mother with what you learn. Unless Mother isn’t supposed to know!”

Mister Sun shepherded Wren through the swinging door and into a little side room, where Painter was already waiting for him.

“Thanks, Mister Sun,” Wren said.

“Of course, Master Wren, anything and everything for you, always.” He bowed a little, and then stepped out and closed the door to the room, leaving Wren and Painter together.

“Hi, Painter,” Wren said.

“Hey, Wruh- Wruh- Wruh…” Painter said, struggling to get his mouth around the words. He shook his head once, hard, like he was trying to crack his neck. “Hey, Wren. How’re things?”

Wren shrugged and looked at the floor. No reason to lie about it. “Not so great.”

Painter nodded. “Because of that Council mmmm-meeting?”

“Sort of. And other stuff.”

Painter nodded again, and the two stood in silence for a moment.

“Painter, I have to tell you something.”

“OK.”

“But before I tell you, I have to ask you to promise you won’t tell anybody else.”

“Alrrr- alrrrr…” the word caught in his mouth. Painter stopped himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Alright.”

“It’s really important that nobody else finds out, OK? Like,
really
important.”

“I won’t tuh…” Painter fought another word out. Wren waited patiently. “…tell anyone.”

“OK. Well. OK. The night before you and Luck… you know, before you came to visit. Something happened. At the compound.” Wren felt a rush of adrenaline, the memory of the attack freshly renewed, now with new dreadful significance. Painter remained silent, attentive. “Someone got in. A girl. And she tried to… hurt… me.” He couldn’t bring himself to say what she was really there to do.

Painter’s unnatural eyes widened in perfectly natural surprise. “She ah… attacked you?” he asked.

“She tried, but I heard her coming and I got away. But, she didn’t. She hurt herself.” Wren felt tears welling up again at the thought, and put a finger in the corner of his eye to try to stop it. “I guess she didn’t want to get caught, and she hurt herself, Painter. And I wanted to help her, and Mouse – he would have if there was something he could’ve done, but she was too hurt. She died.”

Painter reached over and put a hand on Wren’s shoulder, and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry. That must have b- must have been terrible.”

Now the hard part. “I think she was someone you know,” Wren said.

“Me?”

Wren nodded. “We didn’t know who she was, not until today. We were trying to find out, but everyone was trying so hard to be careful and not give anything away. We didn’t find out until Miss Rae talked to some of people from the West Wall.” The West Wall was where a lot of the folks who used to live outside had made their camp. “They think her name…” Wren struggled to force the words out. “They think it was Snow.”

Wren saw the confusion on Painter’s face, watched as he slowly made the connection and then started shaking his head in disbelief. His hand slipped slowly off of Wren’s shoulder.

“No, it cuh – no, it couldn’t be her,” he said, not denying it so much as saying there was clearly a misunderstanding. “It couldn’t be. Why would you think that?”

“Miss Rae went out and showed her picture around, asking about her, and a woman said she knew her, but hadn’t seen her in a few days. A woman named Charla.”

Painter’s hand went to his mouth, fingers lightly touching his lips. Still shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any suh- sense.”

“Have you seen her since… the first time?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Nuh… nuh… no. She wouldn’t…” He shook his head again, and looked off to the corner of the room. Remembering, maybe. After a moment, he looked back at Wren. “But I’m sure it’s not her. I’m sure she’s just off, you know… she used to go off on her own, some, some, sometimes for days. Probably just exploring. She luh-luh-luh… she loves exploring.”

“Well, could you come back to the compound with me? Just to be sure?”

“I c-c-can’t, I’m working.”

“I’m sure Mister Sun would say it was OK. It’s your sister.”

“It’s not my sister!” Painter said, sharply enough that Wren flinched. Painter softened. “It’s not my sister, OK? I’m shh… shhh… sure of it.”

There was a tap at the door, and it opened a crack. Mister Sun leaned his head in. “Master Wren, Mister Able says it is time.”

He replied, “OK, I’ll be right there, Mister Sun. Thanks.”

Mister Sun nodded and smiled, but Wren could see the concern on his face as he withdrew.

“You won’t come back with me?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Maybe luh… later tonight, after I finish.”

“I don’t think it’s safe to come alone, Painter. Not at night.”

Painter just shrugged. He wasn’t going to change his mind. And Able was waiting.

Wren nodded. “OK. Well, I’m sorry. I hope we’re wrong.”

“You are, and it’s OK.” Wren nodded again and moved to the door. “I’ll come by in, in, in, a day or tuh – two, OK?” Painter said.

“OK.”

“And Wren?”

“Yeah?”

“Nice hat.”

Wren smiled and tried to force a laugh, but it came out like a lie. “Thanks. See you, Painter.”

“Yep.”

Able was standing at the door when Wren stepped out of the room, looking like he already knew how it had gone. He nodded slightly and put his hand out for Wren’s, and together they left the Tea House.

Wren cried the whole way back.

As they neared the governor’s compound, their path led them by the north-eastern gate and though Wren’s eyes were on the ground, he felt Able’s stride slow and his hand tensed.

“What is it, Able?” Wren asked, out of reflex. Able wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. When Wren followed his gaze, he saw what had caused him to react.

The remnants were strewn all over the street. The gate itself didn’t seem to be damaged at all, though Wren couldn’t tell if anyone had been trying to break into the compound anyway. But what once had been a memorial to those who’d been taken was now little more than a pile of debris smashed against the base of the wall. The wreaths had been pulled apart, the vigil lights stomped on and smashed against the concrete, the various articles of clothing and other personal effects were all torn, crushed, or shattered. And the pictures. The pictures were mostly pulled down and scattered along the street. Some swirled, caught in little eddies of the night air.

Able swung Wren up and carried him quickly towards the main gate. As they headed inside the compound, Wren wondered if his grand idea not to keep extra guards posted was another catastrophe in the midst of unfolding.