AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A short pause, a softening in her expression. She takes a step toward him—his eyes momentarily brighten—then past him.
His face falls.
“I’m sorry, Epap,” she says.
She takes my elbow, gently pulls me along. Together we walk away. She never looks back.
21
“WHERE ARE WE going?” I ask Sissy as we head briskly down the street.
“I’m getting to the bottom of this, Gene.”
“Tell me what you have in mind.”
“I’m going to Krugman. I’m getting answers out of him.”
Ten strides later, I say, “Sissy, we need to tread lightly.”
She stops. Her eyes are on fire. “We both know something is terribly off about this village. The captive dusker. The train tracks.” She shakes her head. “Something about this place led your father to suicide, for crying out loud! The time to tread carefully is over!”
“And I know that, Sissy! But give us a little more time to dig deeper on our own. Disclosing our suspicions to Krugman at this point isn’t the best move.”
She kicks at the ground. “You’re forgetting something. While this is all new to you, I’ve been up and about for five days now. And I’m done snooping, playing detective. No more pussyfooting.” She runs her hand through her hair. “Truth? I’ll go at it alone if I have to. But I’d really prefer having you with me, Gene.”
I see the intensity in her eyes. She may be right. Confrontation might be the only way to get answers. I think about the laundry girls this morning, their tattoos and brandings. Their unwillingness to speak. I nod at her. Gladness wells in her eyes.
* * *
“Where’s Krugman?” Sissy asks a group of village girls as we pass them. They shake their heads, faces smiling blankly.
“Where’s Grand Elder Krugman?” I ask another group of girls. They bow, shake their heads, refusing to meet my eyes.
“It’s useless!” Sissy says in frustration.
“Hey you!” I shout at an elder through an open window. He’s leaning back on his chair inside, feet propped up on the table and a mug in hand.
He blinks, his eyes foggy. Frothy ale spills down the side of his mug. “What?”
“Tell me where Krugman is!” I shout, knowing I’m creating a scene. Through the window I see the other patrons—all elders in what looks to be the tavern—staring at me, their eyes watery and amused.
“It’s not for you to ask,” the man replies.
“It’s urgent. I need to speak to him.” I walk up to the window.
“Well, don’t we all.” His words are slurred. Inside, the tavern is crowded with elders in varying stages of inebriation. The beer mugs, wineglasses, whisky tumblers gripped with thick, bloated fingers. Fumes of alcohol mix with the smog of tobacco smoke, adding to the foul odor chuting out their slack mouths.
I pull away from the window. As I disappear from sight, they think I’ve given up and left. A comment is murmured, followed by a rumble of laughter. Sissy and I surprise them when we barge through the swinging front doors seconds later. Their smirks and smiles die on their faces.
“I said I need to see Krugman. Where is he?”
An elder at the bar turns his shoulders square with mine. “What’s the problem? Maybe I can help you.” He says it with a prissy, overeager voice that I realize is in jest. The round of laughter that breaks out confirms my suspicion.
But not before I see an elder with nervous eyes and an overeager laugh glance toward the back of the bar. At a closed door.
“Is he in there?” I say, pointing at the door.
And just like that, the laughter dies. Air is sucked out of the pub, tension rises in its stead. “He is, isn’t he?” And already I’m taking a step toward the door, Sissy right behind me.
Instantly, the men stand as one, their drunkenness cast aside as if it were always a choice, chairs and stools scraped across the floorboards. They dispense with words as they move swiftly to block our way. One of them puts his arm out, sending it thudding into my chest.
“Far enough now, pretty boy,” he says.
“He’s in there. I need to talk to him.”
“Can’t.”
“Then tell him to come out.”
“No. You need to—”
“Krugman!” I yell. “Krugman! I need to speak with you. Right now!”
The other men waste no time. In a blink, they’re enclosing around me, grabbing the back of my neck, my arms, shoulders—
“Is this all really necessary?” Krugman asks, opening the door and walking out. He shuts the door, his fingertips stroking the Artemis wood panels. His voice is soft, casually toned as he buttons his pants, tucks in his shirt. His eyes are clear and mellow, placated. “Really, you’d think an avalanche was headed this way.” He peers at the elders. “There isn’t, is there?”
“No, no,” a man says. “Just a young boy with his lass having a meltdown over nothing.”
“Tell me why you’ve got one of them—a dusker—in this village,” Sissy says next to me.
“Oh, I see you’ve had a chance to visit the Vastnarium,” Krugman says. “I was going to personally take you there myself, but looks like that won’t be necessary anymore. And please, I’d prefer almost any term over village. Makes the Mission sound so … provincial.”
“What’s a dusker doing here?” I say.
Krugman nods to someone at the bar. Moments later, two tumblers of whisky are brought over. Krugman takes one in each hand. “Were you not paying attention during the Vastnarium presentation? The dusker serves an educational purpose. It reminds our children, in as visceral a way as possible, of the dangers that lurk in the Vast past the safety of our walls. Really, you ought to pay more attention.” He extends his arm to me, offering a drink.
I ignore his invitation. “I was paying attention. And now you need to pay attention to me.” Krugman’s eyes widen. “I’ve lived in ‘the world out there,’” I continue. “I know firsthand what they’re capable of. They’ll stop at nothing for human blood. By keeping a dusker here, you’ve only brought the danger home.”
“The dusker is securely imprisoned,” Krugman says, agitation in his voice. “If you knew anything about that glass, you’d know there’s no getting out of it. It’s unbreakable. See, that glass—”
“I’m familiar with that glass technology. And all too familiar with duskers. That dusker girl might look weak and docile while imprisoned but it is plotting and conniving to break out as we speak. Trust me on this one: it will find a way out.”
Something in Krugman suddenly hardens. His chest lifts, stiffens in place, then collapses down. But when he turns his gaze upon me again, he’s smiling gently, chin pulled down. A fat black mole appears on one of the fatty chin folds, a perfectly centered, upside-down cyclopean eye. A few strands of hair spill out of it like water out of a spouted can. “The Mission is run like a well-oiled engine. The citizens live busy, fulfilling lives. What is more, they are happy. You see the way they smile, you hear the way they sing. Their happiness, in fact, is of the utmost importance to us. The utmost. We make it our duty to ensure that they have a magical, blissful childhood. Every need, every want provided for. In abundance.”
His eyes fill with a mix of mirth and hatred.
