The Secret City (7 page)

“So did my parents. My poor mother couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful the homeworld was.”

We’re looking out at a gnarled juniper, the blue sky behind it dotted with little balls-of-cotton clouds that look phony, next to us are rocks with orange lichen. A black and yellow striped lizard runs past the rocks. The stream gurgles.

“Look how beautiful it is right here.”

“Well….”

“Don’t you think so?”

I guess she doesn’t. She says, “How do you know it’s not better back home? They all said so.”

“Mother exaggerated. I don’t think having two moons can be that much better than one. Golden grass on rolling hills…. We have that here. And sometimes poppies as far as the eye can see. Have you seen that?”

She hasn’t.

“I’ll show you. It has to be in the spring though. Will you come with me?”

Now she looks shy again. And pleased. She looks away and then a quick glance at my face as though wondering if I’m serious.

“I mean it. Come with me.”

I can see in her eyes she’d go anywhere with me.

I take her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

We sit.

But then, suddenly, silently, here’s Mollish. She’s sitting in front of us before we know she’s there. She has so much to carry. I don’t know how she did it by herself. Two backpacks, and a package.

Allush jumps up. Says, “We’re leaving. Are we? I hate it here. I can’t wait to get back to the Down.”

How can she hate it? The way she swings around in the trees? The way she knows her way around the Secret City and as silently as Mollish? I would have thought she’d hate being in so-called civilization. She must have forgotten what it’s like. Life up here would suit me—if I built myself a good cabin.

Or maybe she wants to leave because of the mule. I can understand that.

But if we are going back, I have to tell them I escaped from jail.

“I can’t go out the way I came in. The natives may even think I’m the one that burned my friend. Our own people did it but they’ll think I did. They don’t know anything about us Betashas. Besides, I escaped from jail.”

Mollish says there’s only one way out. And I’d better leave here before I get shot again. Anybody who’d kill the mule has gone crazy. Besides, she, also, has wanted to come back to the Down. This life is fine in the summer, but she’s too old for another winter up here. She says she’ll come back in the spring.

I say, “I’ll come back with you,” and Allush says, “Please don’t.”

Mollish says we should start now and be careful. Youpas may follow. She says, “These will help,” and hands me leaves. “For pain. For energy. Chew them.”

I
T’S CLEAR RIGHT AWAY THAT HER WAY OUT IS NOT
the same way I came slipping and sliding in. It’s easier. We don’t have to climb that cliff I scrambled down. For sure we won’t end up in the same little town where I was in jail, we’re heading too far south for that.

I wonder if the cops would recognize me anyway with a half-grown beard and longer hair and I’ve lost a lot of weight. I hate to look too scruffy in among the natives. I do have two of Ruth’s pink razors left. I’ll save them for later.

Again, the straps of my backpack rub my shoulders. I’ve healed a lot, mostly from the herbs Mollish covered them with, but with this rubbing they’ll get worse again. At least the day is half over, we’ll have to stop soon.

Her way out, though easier, is just as spectacular as my way in—rows of snowy peaks, glaciers…. When thirsty we chew on frazzle ice. There are narrow paths on ledges that are straight down thousands of feet on one side and one place that’s straight down on both sides. That one scared me. I guess Allush is used to heights from being in the trees, and Mollish, though she’s wobbly, does well, too. If they can do it, so can I.

The first night we don’t dare build a fire. We sit in a circle as though around a campfire and eat the dried meat Mollish brought. At first we don’t talk much, but then Allush says, “Tell me about the Down. It must have changed. We left when I was eight. That was eighteen, maybe nineteen years ago.”

I thought she was younger. I suppose, alone out here, she didn’t have a chance to grow up.

“It’s not changed that much.”

But then she tells me more about the Up than I tell her about the Down.

“In the summer campers sometimes come almost to the city. We used to dress as campers and roam about being friendly to everybody. We’d steal things. But we don’t have anymore camping clothes.”

And we talk about mules. Allush says, “Mules helped us get up to the city. Of course by now those are all dead. Pashty was brought up not so long ago. We’ve always felt close to mules. We like to think we’re like them: for their surefooted hardiness, and for the three Fs just like ours: Fight, Flight, or Freeze. Their freeze is because they’re smart enough to stand still… to refuse to do anything dangerous.”

We spread our sleeping bags in a row. I go to sleep holding Allush’s hand.

W
E HAVE FOOD WITH US, BUT ALSO
I’
M GOOD AT
s
natching fish bare-handed as long as there’s a still pool somewhere in the streams. Mollish and Allush are impressed. I think Mollish is beginning to like me in spite of herself. She arranges my backpack straps in a way that saves my burns some. Allush smiles whenever she looks at me. This whole trip is wonderful … because of being with her. Actually being with both of them.

The next night we feel it’s safe to build a fire. I cook the fish. We arrange our sleeping bags near the fire, I on the far side as if as a guard. And I do consider myself a guard. Nothing I’d rather do than guard these two women.

T
HREE DAYS OUT AND WE’RE ON ONE OF THOSE
rocky paths, single file, a steep drop on our left and straight up on our right. The trail is, at most, two or three feet wide …

… when here are our rescuers, come to snatch us all home.

Again, I’m ashamed of them—soft, doughy, pale, their hair in fancy pompadours, dressed as if for Hawaii, even to shorts. Easy to see they’re ignorant of this world. They stand as if surprised to find themselves on a ledge, the view of mountains beyond. They’re single file as we are. I’m last. Allush is in front. Everybody’s standing still. Stunned. Both they and us.

I say, “I thought none of us had a beacon.”

Allush says, “I have yours.”

Mollish says, “But I told you….”

Allush, ahead of us, says, in our language … that first phrase all our mother’s taught us, even before we could hardly say anything at all. I still know it by heart. “I’m us. Take me home.”

And before she can say anymore, she’s gone. Off in a pinkish haze. A sort of ectoplasm … that’s all that’s left of her. For a moment it stays in her shape, then she … it … blows away.

Perhaps she thought I’d be right behind her. But Mollish and I both shout, “No!”

It’s almost the same as it was back when they tried to snatch me before, though the men seem more wary than they were then and they’re obviously frightened to find themselves on the edge of a drop off.

Mollish pushes the tube aimed at her down and to the side, so the man in front of her burns the ground instead of us. She’s strong and she can kickbox, but there’s only a narrow place to fight. She’s off balance. She kicks a good kick, then off she goes, with the man she kicked right behind her, both sliding down the scree in a dusty landslide.

I don’t know what happens to the third man. I’m too busy fighting the one that’s after me. I’m wounded and burned, but I’m in better shape than he is. I swing my cane—the one Allush made for me—hard. It breaks but it knocks him off balance. Then I come in close and knock him out with one good uppercut. Why don’t they ever send people who can defend themselves even a little bit? And they know nothing about the natives nor of us who grew up here. Some of the tourists must have gotten back before they stopped picking us up. Some of those tourists must have told them about this world. And why don’t they sit down and talk with us even for just a minute? Give us a chance to think about it and choose if we want to go home or not and if we do, give us a chance to say good-bye? They think we don’t know enough to decide for ourselves. Mollish knows both worlds and wants to stay.

I have to get down to her to see if she’s all right.

Except I don’t want this man trying to send me home again when my back is turned. But that was a good punch. He’s out cold. I examine his instruments, strange small tubes with little paper clip things as switches. I wouldn’t dare flip any of them. I’d like to get rid of them and him—send him home though I don’t know how. I wonder if Mollish remembers how to use these.

I look under his arms and as far as I can see there’s no beacon. Yet they can’t want to be stuck here any more than our parents did.

I take his tubes, then I go along the trail until there’s a way to climb down. I toss his tubes down in front of me, take off my backpack. Then I leave the trail and start down. I hope Mollish is all right. It’s a long fall but she’s tough. For sure tougher than they are.

Allush wanted to go home. I shouldn’t feel bad though I do. Did she really want to go back without me? Or did she think I’d follow? She’s the only woman of my own people…. And she liked me.

ALLUSH

I
CAN’T TAKE IT IN
. S
PIRES, DAZZLE, CHIRPING AND
cheeping. A distant humming. The air has a kind of glitter. Could that be? Maybe it’s all inside my head. But it’s wonderful even so. I knew I was right to come back. The Secret City was supposed to be like the cities of home, but it wasn’t. It was supposed to remind our parents and show us younger ones what the home planet was like, but how could it? Everything had to hide under the trees and here it’s all towers and shine! They couldn’t have had any of this. And, with everything made of granite, there was nothing but gray. Here I can’t tell what I’m seeing. I hardly know where one tower begins and another ends.

Porches. Are those really porches? Tethered? Like square boats but in the air? Our parents should have told us. But maybe they tried and we didn’t understand.

And those doorways! I’m sure they really open and not just into a closet or into nothing.

Those sounds might be birds. Our parents said there were lots of birds … that almost everything was birds. There’s something twirling in the distance. Do their birds twirl instead of fly?

There’s this silvery haze. It looks as if it’s raining though it isn’t. Little white puffy things like seeds are falling out of the sky. Everything that should be green is reddish. There’s a bitter smell. I’m not sure if I like it or not. But this is home! This is what I’ve waited for all my life. How can I not like it?

I think to move closer to get a better look at the buildings, and then I realize I’m on a platform above everybody else—as if on display and there’s a dead man lying right beside me. He’s wearing a ridiculouso outfit. It’s those clothes they all thought the natives wore but they hardly ever did—except in Hawaii. But everybody here is colorful. I’m the one, looks drab. I’m in my worn deerskin outfit. And I’m dirty. They all have fancy hairdos, black hair even curling round their eyes. Or maybe that’s some kind of glasses. I hate to think what
my
hair looks like. I hardly ever comb it anymore. That’s because I can’t. I did try because of Lorpas being there, but it was in a permanent tangle. I knew I’d have to cut out the knots first. I was going to ask Mollish to help.

Everybody’s looking at me. This is a wide central square and they’re on wide steps below. They’re laughing and trying to hide it. For sure they’ve never seen somebody from the Secret City until now. To them I’m a barbarian. Well, I am. My parents thought so, too. Mollish thought so, but she didn’t care. Why isn’t she here? And Lorpas? I thought they were right behind me.

Do these people, trying to hide their smiles, even know there’s a dead person lying here? They bow and nod. They wave their hands back and forth in front of their faces as if waving off flies. I don’t know if there are flies here but I think that gesture is about me. I wonder if I smell bad. I know I’m dusty and … well, I haven’t had a good wash-up since it got cold.

The way they’re dressed and the way their hair is, I can’t tell which are male and which female. But I suppose they can’t tell about me either.

I take a step forward but a couple of people grab me from behind, turn me around and rush me away, down steep steps and in a doorway. Out of sight fast as if I’m too horrible to be seen by decent people—as if I might do something dangerous or unseemly.

They put me in a tiny room, a kind of padded cell. There’s not even a window and everything in there is gray. I wish there was a window. What’s the sense of being here on a whole new world and not seeing anything? I was wanting so badly to see all that glitter and I especially wanted to get a better look at the twirling birds … if those are birds. This room might as well be on any old world.

They make me take a whole batch of pills. I try not to, but they know how to force you. I yell both, “No,” and, that “Aay
yaa”
of my own language. I call out for Lorpas. Why isn’t he here?