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main | table of contents Copyright © 2003, S. Y. Affolee 38 Fifth Hour The evening of the last Unnamed Day would have been beautiful if she weren’t trapped in a small black compact car heading deep into the Old Quarter with only the vague notion that something was going to happen. Something utterly wrong and horrible. That morning, she had awoken early, staring up at the ceiling of Gammell’s bedroom, wondering if what she had found would abruptly end. The previous evening, the whispers had stopped when she put the mirror back into its pouch. The whispers were still quiet during the morning, but some fear lodged in her throat—those urgent voices beckoning, persuading her to chuck everything and to go to a place. Elsewhere. She had turned and to her surprise found Gammell still asleep. Had she awoken too early or was he sleeping too late? He slept on his back, one arm to his side, the other bent across his abdomen. She tugged the sheet down slightly to watch his bare chest move up and down with his rhythmic breathing. She reached out to put her hand over his heart and then moved up to cup his chin and to trace his angular cheekbones. She had thought that he looked so young when he was asleep. “What are you doing?” His voice was still rough from sleep, but his eyes were closed. She jerked her hand away. “Memorizing you.” He turned his head and opened his eyes. “Why?” The fear in her throat grew larger. “I don’t want you to leave.” “I’m not going anywhere.” He reached out to pull her to him. His mouth touched her forehead. “I’m not letting you go. Don’t you know that?” She gave a small laugh. “You make me sound like a small pet that needs to be kept on a leash at all times.” His fingers traced the pulse on her neck. “You’re not a small pet. You’re part of me. Sort of like an arm or a leg or a lung. I wouldn’t want to let any of those go, but if I lost them, life would definitely not be the same.” “That’s not exactly a romantic metaphor, but that’s a strong admission to make.” She gave him a small smile. “Well, whatever happens, I’ll remember your words.” The moon had completely disappeared. It was a new moon. Instead, the stars were out in the firmament, unblinking silver points. The dark sky wasn’t quite clear. There were wisps of clouds snaking overhead in oilish forms. It was if one was looking overhead into some celestial brew of unknown contents, boiling and fuming. The air itself had been crisp and cool. Although there was snow and ice on the ground, there was no indication that it would precipitate any time soon. Gammell drove to Bilemot and parked one block away from the East Tower which loomed in the darkness, erect and ominous. A scattering of light could be seen from the top of the tower. Someone was there. Verity felt completely unprepared. What was to happen? What would happen? Would they be able to do what they were supposed to do? The thought that Gammell had the small strange mirror in his coat pocket did nothing to calm her fears. She vaguely had an idea what it was for, but had no clue as to whether that idea was right or completely wrong. They walked down the block toward the East Tower. There was no wind but the air stung the cheeks anyway. The neighborhood of the Old Quarter was quiet and dark and silent. It was as if all the inhabitants had packed up after Fasting Day and had left to southern climes. Or they had all died. Or they had all simply disappeared. Verity shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets and toyed with the small knife she had normally kept before. She had retrieved it from the wastebasket of her bathroom when they had visited her apartment again briefly. Gammell didn’t know she had it, but he needn’t have worried anyway. She wasn’t planning on using it on herself. The door to the tower was closed, but with the push of the hand, it opened a crack and they slipped through. The stairway was dark. “Verity?” said Gammell. “Hm?” “I want you to go back. I’m supposed to do this myself. You just moved here and got swept along.” “What are you talking about? I’m going with you.” “I don’t want you to get hurt.” “Gammell.” She reached out to take hold of his arm. She faced him in the darkness, face heated in growing anger, but her voice was quiet. “Gammell, we all get hurt at one time or another, sooner or later. You told me that you wouldn’t leave me. It works both ways. I won’t leave you.” “Stubborn aren’t you?” He sighed audibly. “All right. I have a feeling that if I said no, you’d be following me anyway.” They proceeded up the stairs and a chanting noise filtered through, getting louder and louder as they neared the door that led up to the top of the tower. Carefully, he opened the door a crack and peered through. “It looks like some sort of ceremony.” “Who’s there?” “See for yourself.” He moved aside to let her see. Through the crack, she could see a wide platform at the top of the tower that overlooked the arching aqueduct. It was lit with scattered stands holding glowing but smokeless coals. The similar figures liked the cowled ones that waited in front of Tiberius Verne’s house stood along the platform in a loose formation. One member stood away from the group beside an object veiled with a long piece of dark cloth. That member was familiar with his balding hairstyle and well-etched features. “What is Miram Greene doing there?” she whispered. “I don’t…” But Gammell didn’t have a chance to finish. Something had come over their mouths and someone had ruthlessly pulled their hands back and shoved them out of the door and onto the tower platform.  |