Night - 3
Sitting at my desk, recording observations from the first few days in my notebook, some destined for you, others for my return, the candle flickered, and I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye. Conceal. Pressing down with one finger, my notebook disappeared. Reality slipped past me as I watched a shadow manifest from the candle. It bent over the doorway, hovering like a phantom, marking the room as quarantine. I moved my hand over the flame, and the light reacted, but the shadow remained. Suddenly, I'd forgotten what I'd written. Had I been writing at all? It was as if I suddenly became conscious of my existence, and before, it was all motions. A rush of panic came over me. I braced myself.
Over my left shoulder, outside the window, the room from across the way illuminated once again.
I sucked in the night air. A gust of wind tunneled down the road. The curtains across the way drifted outward and gently landed on the window frame. The black silhouette- was it in this room or across the way? I turned back to the doorway, and it was gone.
Across the street, the curtains moved as if something pressed against them. Through the slit, a pair of lenses, one then two, emerged. The binoculars struggled to push through the fabric. They popped through and wriggled out into the open air. Bending, manipulating form, they stretched and crossed the street that separated the buildings. The rain changed to shades of black. Once again, I couldn't move. The metal lenses warped themselves, writhing and elongating, until they were outside my window. Tap, tap, tap.
I lurched awake.
A sliver of horror passed over me. I sat up, grinning faintly, as my breath returned to normal.
Though the strange vision of binoculars warping across the street seemed cartoonish after a moment's time, in the dream, it had felt like a haunted emblem, as if I'd seen the truth from some previously indiscernible angle. Was it paranoia or fear that cast its spell? The origin of these scenes played tricks, an unwelcome hand from some dark corner of my subconscious. I shook my head, cleared my thoughts of the image, and glanced over at the window across the street—a hollow square in the wall, blank and empty. The sky hung dark, and the grandmother clock inched near 5 a.m.—close to morning, still far from daylight.
I stood and prowled the hallway toward the bathroom. Shadows pooled softly around each step. Though others were in the flat, it felt still, almost reverent in the early hour. After days of rain and sweat-stained nights, a wash felt overdue. I'd kept to my water rations, and we'd reached the halfway point of the week, so it felt justified that I carry a lit candle down the hall.
Peering inside, I noted the differences. Shaped by the necessities of the Northern climate, the bathroom held several mechanisms for heating. At the far wall, on a wide platform, a stone sat for conducting heat. In the South, we washed outdoors with cold water, but here, an area for fire sat beneath a metal water basin. I crouched to light it, then turned toward the mirror, noticing a few fine cracks in its surface. I turned to my reflection, amused by the leftover artifacts of the recurring dream.
This'll be fun, if I'm correct about what is happening to me.
I closed my eyes. Opened them. Behind me, I saw a reflection of myself as a child, and behind him, darkness.
There is a story from my homeland about starless nights. Skies like these spell periods without hope. When I was old enough, the headmaster of the royal orphanage told me that I'd arrived on one. He said he hesitated at the sight of the willow basket under the unseemly night. Inside, a sleeping baby, a blanket, and a handwritten note. Well-regarded in the South, the institution was known for sheltering children of distinguished origins. The note affirmed my place among them: "His parents died protecting the king. I will retrieve him when he is ready." Now, the armistice had gone into effect, and the country could experience a time of convalescence. The headmaster took me in his arms, and examined me in the candlelight.
I moved my hand past the flickering candle to the container–the tub had warmed. Twisting the nob, I filled a wooden pail of steaming water. Dabbing my fingers, I dragged warm, wet fingers across my face. The thrill of hot water passed; pores opened like bright sea anemones. Adding soaps of vervain and lavender, the aroma carried, and filled the tight space. I dabbed a damp, warm sponge across my bare body. Toes, knees, shoulders. The warm air engulfed me.
My conscious memory started around five or six years old. I have warm thoughts about the caretakers, who would smile and laugh when they saw me in the halls. Tell me I've done enough when we were cleaning the restrooms. Some would sneak me treats, cookies, pastries, and spiced candy. I recalled rolling hunger, extreme heat, the still waters of the fountain, the view of dead grass behind the courtyard, but nothing totally discernible until I was seven.
One morning, the headmaster entered our sleep chambers, and announced that we'd have company. All of the boys exited their cots, and stood upright. He paced down the middle of the room. As he reached me, he stared at me in the eyes, came up, and patted me on the head. Up until that point, the halls had been quiet, and the doorways empty. It was never even a thought that we'd leave these walls at a young age. We'd lived in a bubble of play, clean, eat, and sleep. At the end of the day, before climbing into my cot, two of the older boys approached me with an outstretched hand, and a smile.
This smile wasn't a real smile.
"Seemed like the headmaster really likes you," the big one said. As he grabbed my risk, and pulled me toward the field of dead grass, I remembered learning, for the first time, that smiles weren't always real smiles. Truths could be easily hidden beneath trickery. One outstretched hand, could conceal another with a jagged rock.
Back in my room, the day broke against a bright sky. The lighter hue signaled no rain. I tapped my notebook to make it vanish and glanced out at the window across the street. Once again, it was black and lifeless. As I exited the door, I noticed Charles shuffling around his belongings at the entrance of his room.
"Charles, morning," I said.
"Oh, good morning, Onu," he said.
"Looks like there's no rain this morning."
"Would you believe it?"
"Actually, it's my first since I got here," I said. "Hey, would you care to walk together to school?"
"Sure, that'd be great! I'll be down in a moment."
Outside, we strolled from the apartment to the riverside. To our right, the river pooled into a reservoir, a basin that served as a central area, and a terminus for the boat shuttle. The water continued beyond a row of buildings that arched overhead. Awnings and clotheslines stretched across balconies, which hung over the banks. Above the basin, a 10-foot orb of black mass floated just above the surface. The orb swirled slowly with sparse volts of energy emanating from within. Apart from the static, the mass was silent, and it was impossible to see inside the hole. In front of it stood a wooden landing, where two men in black trench coats and caps watched silently.
"You all have one too, huh?"
"Yeah," he said. "You too?"
"Yeah. I read that each of the remaining societies has one, however, it is always horrifying to see in person."
On the opposite side, green space ascended into the cliff side. Divided into terrace gardens, each echelon had a long strip of grassy knolls to sit and convene. Compared to the desolate riverside that I'd traversed every day, the garden had a handful of civilians. As we circled back toward the school, I felt watchful eyes on me. A glance confirmed that the civilians observed me from each direction. Threatening glares pierced the misty morning air. Looks came from men, women; some hunched over, others standing. On closer view, their pale, skeletal faces revealed sharp cheekbones and chins that seemed to press against their thin skin.
"Are they, alright?"
"People aren't used to seeing someone like you around," Charles said, stating the obvious. "Probably just not used to someone with your skin tone."
"Indeed," I said.
"You are staying safe, though, right, Onu?"
"What do you mean?"
"I noticed you came home a bit later last night," he said.
"I appreciate the thought, Charles, but I can very well take care of myself."
"Oh," he said.
"One thing, though," I said. "Last night as I was coming home. I saw these men, women- people. And they had black cloaks and masks that looked a bit like."
"Hmm. The faceless. I'd stay away from them."
"Why? What are they? What do they do?"
"Well. It's complicated," he paused reticently and looked around to see if anyone was in earshot, "But normally, they enforce. "
"And normally, if they're nearby, something bad is happening."
Around the bend, under a light grey sky, three fishermen bordered the banks, their lines dragging in the rushing water. They glanced up at us as we passed.
Ahead, a seven-story building stood with balconies and awnings at alternating levels. In the structure, a gaping crack ripped through. Overgrowth popped out, creating a green crevasse abundant with plant growth.
"Is there a reason the buildings are uniform heights like that?"
Charles laughed, "That'd probably be a good question to ask the prof."
"Right," I said.
"Just make sure that you don't go there," Charles said and nodded his head at the Seafarer.
"Why?"
"A lot of bad types hang out there."
"Bad types?" I said, and stopped.
He nodded.
"I've already been there, Charles," I said.
"Really?" he burst.
"I didn't find it that bad," I said. "Some gruff looking people, sure, but everyone minding their own."
His gaze descended to the ground in front of him. "Just be careful, I guess."