CALIFORNIA STATE UNIVERSITY, NORTHRIDGE
THE SHADOW REALM: A NOVELLA
A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements
For the degree of Master of Arts in English
By
Dylan Altman
May 2014
Copyright 2014 Dylan Altman
ii The thesis of Dylan Altman is approved:
__________________________
__________________________
Dr. Leilani Hall
Date
__________________________
__________________________
Dr. Charles Hatfield
Date
__________________________
__________________________
Dr. Katharine Haake, Chair
Date
California State University, Northridge
iii Dedications
This work is dedicated to my heroes, both fictional and non-fictional: my parents
(including their flaws), Edmund Dantes, Mark Twain, my aunts and uncles, Rand
Al’Thor, Gene Roddenberry, and Jean-Luc Picard.
I would also like to acknowledge and thank Dr. Katharine Haake for her endless
support, guidance, and understanding throughout my entire academic career; Dr. Leilani
Hall for her beautiful ear and wise words; and Dr. Charles Hatfield for expanding my
knowledge of fantasy texts.
Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my friends, my workshop groups,
my team, and my roommates. Thanks for always allowing me to vent, both in my stories,
and in my rantings; you are all good people.
iv Table of Contents
Copyright Page....................................................................................................................ii
Signature Page....................................................................................................................iii
Dedications.........................................................................................................................iv
Abstract...............................................................................................................................vi
The Dream...........................................................................................................................1
In the Beginning...................................................................................................................4
The Metropolis…………. .................................................................................................15
Awake, Yet Not………….................................................................................................34
The Spark..……….….………...........................................................................................45
Into the Depths……..……………………………………………………………….……55
The Space Between……....................................................................................................68
Between…..………….......................................................................................................78
v ABSTRACT
THE SHADOW REALM:
A NOVELLA
By
Dylan Altman
Master of Arts in English
In this Dystopic Factory-Dickensian setting, Naifi, the protagonist, is at the
bottom rung of the social order. Naifi is an orphan and therefore property of the state;
within this world, the Factories are workhouses where children are forced to contribute to
the various state production needs by working and living within the Factories and
producing: coal, wood, clothes, beds, food, etc. The Factory that Naifi lives in controls
the city’s coal production; therefore the children are used for menial labor as coal
collectors, coal packagers, and chimney sweeps for the upper class. Naifi and the other
orphans have no agency or control over their own lives within this world. Naifi has no
power in the waking life. He lives at the will of his Overseers, under the gaze of the
Watchers, and within the highly panoptic Factory. But, he begins to find that although
they try to repress him at every angle, when he is asleep he has the control.
vi The Dream
The dream occurs again. As always, it begins the same.
He walks down the deserted streets alone. The boy’s footsteps echo against the
cracked cobblestones below.
His slight frame walks unhindered at the center of the street. Shadows cling to the
edges of the path.
The buildings, gray and falling apart, loom over him. Once beautiful, the rubble
of the crumbling buildings tell the tale of a battle long gone.
A low rumbling emanating from the shadows shatters the silence of the city, while
the howls of more than one creature echo off the nearby buildings.
A bubble of fear starts to slowly start to rise in his chest and he hears another
answering howl from the darkness to his right. He looks behind him, but he sees nothing.
He runs faster. The sounds of the beasts follow him.
The streets widen and the buildings begin to turn away from him in anticipation.
Ahead, the road splits into two different directions.
Their footfalls, heavy with their desire, slowly warn him of their approach; the
creatures step out of the shadows. Their fur, white like a crystalline winter morning,
stands on end, yet the shadows seem to dull their color into a nondescript gray. The
splatter of their spit and the blood around their mouths is a bright contrast to their coats.
The mixture of fluids drips from the wolves’ faces slowly forming into a puddle on the
ground. Their eyes, empty pits of night, struggle to soak up the light around them.
1 Although he is running, time compresses. The last rays of light play across his
face. The light highlights the left side of his face, leaving his other half enshrouded in
darkness. His face flickers, his nostrils flare, and his eyes widen; the beasts continue their
prowl towards him. The green emeralds of his eyes entrap the remaining light and reflect
the pack’s image for a brief moment before forming into a small spark of light floating
before him. The spark of light begins to swell in dimension and radiance. The creatures
start to snarl and snap towards the growing form. She begins to take definite shape; a
figure appears in the light. The figure becomes the light.
An older matronly woman with earth-toned skin materializes and steps forward.
She steps in front of him. Her hands callused, yet shining with inner warmth,
encircle his for a brief second. She looks back towards him, crinkles forming at her eyes.
She continues to smile at him and squeezes a silent message of comfort into his hands
before letting him go and turning back towards them.
She steps towards one of the creatures.
Light and dark meet. A spinning pinwheel of destruction forms; brightness and
darkness blend together and rip into the very universe. The spiral’s swirling picks up
velocity. The stones around the vortex begin to shimmer and fade. A hole appears and the
boy feels the air around him being sucked towards it.
The boy doesn’t bother watching any further. He runs left.
The buildings flow by him as he runs down the streets. As he runs deeper in, the
streets become narrower and the buildings grow taller.
Again, their howls warn him of their approach. Fire burns in his lungs. Seeing an
end in the distance, he runs down the corridors without looking back. He sees a doorway,
2 an exit, and runs down a narrowing alley towards it.
Finally, he sees the door in sight, so he stops to catch his breath. But, there is no
end. As always, he opens the door to a bricked up wall. He turns to face the pack of
predators. The pack of creatures continues their steady gait towards him.
The ever-shifting darkness coalesces from the edges of the building and surrounds
the boy. The multitude of shades become one. The shadow from the broken city stretches
and ripples. Like plants stretching for sunlight, the tendrils of darkness extend from the
shadow towards him.
The cycle continues; they surround him. The pack’s white-fur, stained in patches
with blood, stands up on end. They tighten their circle around him. The wolves shirk
away from the encroaching darkness as the wisps of smoky blackness begin to lightly
curl around the boy’s extremities.
The leader of the pack faces him, unmoving; she stares down her snout at him and
a throaty growl echoes from the center of her abdomen.
The boy faces her. In the next instant, the she-wolf is on top of him and her jaws
encircle his throat. He feels the crunch of her teeth around his neck and the sticky
wetness seeping over his legs. His eyes flutter across the rest of the pack as they approach
him slowly. The leader moves from his throat to his bowels; the smell of the his entrails
bursting in the beasts’ mouths makes everything suddenly more clear and real to the boy
than it had ever have been before. He tries to lift his head, but the rest of the pack
encircles him, waiting for their turn.
Then there is darkness.
3 In The Beginning
The bell rings, fracturing the Factory’s tomb-like silence. The first thing he heard
in his new life was the sound of the bell. Now it has become his constant, his focal point.
In a small brown nook above the factory floor, a thin pale boy on his fifteenth or
sixteenth cycle – once they’re here the orphans never remember the specifics – opens his
eyes and moves his blonde hair out of his oval shaped face.
A gust of wind dances with the candles lining the interior of the building around
him. A low-light haze hangs around the room in clusters, surrounding the candles.
Columns stained yellow, brown, and red, line the interior walls of the structure. Each
column is scarred with handholds and holes, which form the walls of the Factory and the
sleeping quarters of the workers.
At the bottom of every column, lines grouped together by color sprout outwards
in every direction. Every line is the same color as its column. Faded by age, each line
leads in a different direction. The thin lines on the ground lead to thicker bars of the same
color and then to their corresponding place of work, exit, or even entrance into the mine.
The boy, Naifi, rubs his right arm where a thin band of brown ink was recently
tattooed into his pale skin. The skin around the band is red and raw to the touch. He
remembers the words his newfound guide Rhea said. The Order places the workers into
lines, to contain them. Over time it became routine, then it became history, and now it
has become their guiding code.
All lines spiral towards the mine. He catches himself looking at the cavity in the
Factory’s center and Papa’s home, or as they called it the Papa’s Nest, suspended high
above the cavern with large iron chains bolting it into place.
4 The hole is a medium size abscess at the center of the Factory. Rails of blood red
metal sing with the distant sound of carts as the late shift of miners return from their
subterranean work. The second bell sounds and the day begins again.
Naifi runs his hands over the hollowed out surface of the stone surrounding him,
bracing himself. As always, it starts with the morning bell. The Sickness rolls over him
with the reverberating waves of the fading sound. His body shakes uncontrollably before
he is able to shimmy towards the edge of his nook and throw up a thin stream of gruel.
Naifi wipes his mouth with his shift and watches the lines form and the orphans’
daily routines unfold. I don’t have it as bad as most. He finds himself thinking. One day
it will stop, it has to.
Every day he watches them follow their pre-arranged paths, they do not question,
and they continue on. The floor tells them what to do and who they are. Eventually it
becomes all they have.
At their admission, each orphan is assigned a color to fill their newfound
emptiness: Red, Brown, Green, and Yellow. The Order tells the new orphans that those in
their color are their close family, while those outside of their spectrum are their extended.
There is nothing outside of their new family. Everything that was, is gone. They are told
to move forward and to not look back.
He scoots back into the corner of his nook and puts his hands over his navel.
Although he can’t feel it on the surface of his skin, he knows there is a hole at the center
of his very being. This is wrong. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The wound
within him will never heal, not here. He tries to stop himself from thinking about it, but
the thought still escapes him. What was it like, to not hurt?
5 Small forms start to shimmy down the handholds to the left and right of his nook.
The flurry of bodies flying by his nook, at the edge of his vision, is familiar to him.
Strangely, he finds himself thinking of the Before. Unlike the other workers, he
remembers it, even if it is only in fragments. He knows he wasn’t always here, but he
doesn’t know where he used to be. He only remembers the fluttering of wings, a bold
crisp fragrance of what he could only describe as new life, and a woman’s figure against
the light.
He opens his eyes and then closes them again to steel against the pain. A curl of
pale blonde of hair escapes from the nest on his head and falls on his face. He folds the
curl behind his ear and props himself against the wall of the nook. The stained wood’s
surface had worn down to a soft cloth-like texture. He centers himself; his breaths even
out and the feeling of the wood on his back stabilizes him. Another moment passes before
he can get the emptiness of hunger to subdue his painfully familiar companion. He
reaches into his waistband and pulls out the heel of a gnawed piece of bread.
He puts the crust of bread in his mouth and bites down. The shell of the bread
splits open, but the force of his bite shoots the crust out of his fingers and onto the floor
of his nook. He reaches down, shakes off the bread slightly, and puts it back into his
mouth.
It didn’t take Naifi long to realize that food is hard to come by in this new world.
But, Rhea had always been there for him. She gave him bread and helped him when no
one else would. The Order gives the orphans barely enough to live on, but just enough to
keep them malleable to their will.
6 Either you learn to hide food and make friends with the right people or you die.
Remembering her instructions, Naifi clutches the bread to his mouth and he carefully
sucks on it before biting down.
Naifi crawls out from his nook above the work floor and sits at the edge of the
wall. He cranes his neck and sees the different dirty faces and feet of his fellow orphans
as they climb down the crevices in the walls. If they only knew what they could do,
things would change.
Some of them clutch their stomachs, some clutch their heads, and even others
shuffle down the line with crippling injuries, but they do not stop walking on their path.
The Sickness strikes us all eventually, our great equalizer.
With a shriek, the final bell rings throughout the Factory and the last wave of
orphans pour out of the walls. Using the attached ladders as handholds, young ones
appearing from ages five to eighteen scramble from their nooks to the work floor.
An older girl, two cycles Naifi’s senior, crawls down from the space above and
swings into his nook.
She sits next to him, “May the Light shine on you.” He doesn’t answer and
continues to stare out at the factory. “Naifi. What’re you doing?” Naifi tries to turn his
face further away from her. “You know Suresh was furious with you yesterday for being
late to line-up.”
Despite the lines of pain and anger in Naifi’s soft face, he pulls himself up and
stares back at the older girl, his eyes never wavering from hers. “Rhea, I can’t do it
anymore. I just can’t keep playing their game.” His hands find the strap of his shift and
7 he slowly tightens them around it, his knuckles whitening, and he stares off into the
Factory’s low-lit haze.
“Naifi, you can’t let them get to you. We’re in this together. You know that’s the
only way to survive.”
“What’s the point? It’s only a matter of time before I’m recycled or worse.”
On the other side of the factory, one of sicker orphans tries to lower himself to the
next rung, but an older boy swings past him in a hurry for gruel. The sick boy loses his
grip and falls to the Factory floor without even having the chance to scream. Although
they can’t hear it from that distance, Naifi turns away as the boy’s body makes a wet
thwack against the factory floor. The older boy continues down the column, ignores the
corpse, and rushes to his line.
On their side of the Factory, other orphans scramble down the handholds at the
side of the nooks; some make time to throw insults and curses at the two of them for
being late to line up.
Rhea spits towards those who stop to jeer and they scamper away. “It will get
easier, I swear. We’ll figure this out and get through this. But let’s go. If you keep being
late to line-up, everyone’s going to continue hating you, you’ll never get enough food and
you’ll just waste away. ”
He looks up at her, “I don’t care anymore. I miss my home.”
Rhea takes her hand off of Naifi and looks at him harder. “What do you remember
about your home? What’s actually there? How long have we even been here?”
Naifi stares at Rhea, his eyes slightly shaking. “It wasn’t here. I wasn’t here.
That’s all I know. I just want to go back.”
8 “There is no back. There is only now. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. None of us
remembers. None of us have a family. We’re all orphans because of them. The Order
does this to us.”
Naifi watches as one of the Reds finally realizes the mess at the foot of the yellow
column. The Red follows his line, picks up one of the nearby shovels, unsticks the orphan
from the floor, and carries it out of sight.
In the Factory, there is no waste. The Order wrings every drop of humanity out of
them.
Rhea grabs Naifi by the arm and presses her finger against his recent tattoo.
“Remember, we are the Browns. We are the center of the Factory. We have the hardest
job among the orphans. We collect the coal and bring it back to the factory. Despite the
Order’s loftiness, we keep their City running and the Metropolis from icing over in the
winter.”
Rhea points to the line of browns workers proudly, but Naifi sees past the lies. He
watches as the smallest and youngest orphans line up, his Brothers and Sisters in arms,
and notes the gaping mouth of the mine swallowing them up, one by one. They will all
die. He corrects himself. We will all die.
The smallest can climb into places tighter than the older children can fit, but they
die all the same. It’s just a matter of turns.
In mechanical precision, the children follow their lines, take their gear, and
proceed to their next task. Although Rhea might talk about their worth, Naifi knows the
truth. Not many in the Browns grow to adolescence, let alone adulthood. The mines have
many dangers within: cave-ins, poisonous clouds, and even explosions.
9 Naifi turns back to Rhea. “Why are you helping me?”
“We’ve all lost someone, kid. It’s how you deal with it that determines who you
are. Hurry up, we have to be in line by the last bell.”
Rhea climbs down the handrails to their line and Naifi follows her to the Factory
floor. Naifi’s small frame extends to each handhold without a moment to consider his
path. Although he had only been here for a couple of the moon’s cycles, the brownpainted path already feels natural to him. He lowers himself down to his line, trying to
remember how many times he had done this before.
Naifi’s feet touch his brown path and he follows the labyrinth-like lines to the
center of the Factory. Rhea catches his glance and smiles at him. She points to the yellow
line parallel to theirs and he watches the other orphans gathering around the exit of the
Factory.
Rhea turns back to him. “The Yellows are in charge of taking the orders from the
factories within the City and shipping the coal from our factory to whoever ordered it
within the City. Their duties extend all over, except the White City. Under absolutely
strict orders, they are never allowed to go near the Order’s City.”
Naifi looks at the line of Yellows as they gather their packages for delivery. “Why
not?”
A Red walks along his line, looking at the two of them briefly before moving on
his parallel path to examine the other orphans. Rhea continues to walk along the brown
line, but speaks out of the side of her mouth. “The White City is the Order’s domain.
Those who wear white serve them. Their group is separate from the rest. They are housed
within the Order’s walls and aren’t seen a lot after their promotion to a new color.”
10 “How do we get promoted to a new color?”
The shadow at the edges of the Factory bides its time and keeps watch on Naifi.
“The Reds choose you. Some just disappear from their lines and then we’ll see
them some time later in White or even Red. The Reds are our keepers. They control the
ever-rushing lines. They are in charge of the factory floor. They keep all of the coal bins
stocked, the lines and children in order, and they prepare the little food thrown at us.
They answer to Papa and Papa answers to the Order.”
“So, whom does the Order answer to?”
“By the gods, we went over that nights ago.”
A crowd of the orphans forms ahead of them, blocking the line.
In between the phrases of her rehearsed speech, Naifi hears the fragments of
hidden truth. The Reds are the best fed and the one’s with the most free time and power.
But they are slaves all the same.
The orphans know their place; they know their paths.
The brown line underfoot makes a slight-left and runs parallel with the Green’s
line for a brief moment. He watches the lines of green become crowded with bodies and
break away from their centric spiral inwards towards the East Exit. Some of the Greens
take brooms, buckets, and other cleaning supplies, as they get closer to the exit. Rhea
catches his glance, “They are in charge of sweeping the chimneys of the City and the
several factories throughout. Poor bastards. Each day, a number of the Greens that go out
do not come back. The streets swallow them up.”
11 The ever-present knife presses against the inside of his naval. He shakes his head,
but he can feel the blade entangling his intestines. He closes his eyes and tries to
continue on his spiraling path.
Ahead of him, one of the smaller younger orphans drops to the ground, his body
uncontrollably shaking. Another nameless orphan is forced to suffer for the Order. But
the line continues moving and the orphans step around the boy’s flailing body. Unlike the
others, Rhea goes to the boy and holds him until his shaking subsides.
Although she is older and larger, Rhea’s frail body betrays her; she struggles to
get the boy to his feet. Naifi goes to her side to help her, but the sound of a rattling cough
and heavy footfalls stops him from continuing onwards.
One of the heavier orphans in the Factory approaches them; bars of red stain his
arms, yet they barely cover a faded bruise of brown.
Rhea shifts her thin form in front of small child, shielding him. “Suresh,
everything’s alright. He’s up. We’re on our way.”
Suresh towers over the other orphans by at least a head, his gut betraying the
benefit of cycles of better food and better treatment. He steps out from his line and
crosses into theirs, breaking the taboo, an allowance reserved to those in Red.
“Leave him. If he can’t walk, he can’t mine.” Suresh grabs the boy by his wrist
and slings him over his shoulder, a soft exhale echoing from the boy’s depths.
Rhea’s teeth unconsciously bare and she shouts at Suresh. “By the Gods, put him
down. He’ll be fine. I’ll take care of him.”
“You know the rules, Rhea. You’ve been here as long as I. We can only be Raised
through work. If we can’t work, we have no function. Papa will figure out something to
12 do with him.” Suresh starts to walk away from them; the small boy on his shoulder eyes
flutter closed. Suresh crosses the lines, heading towards exit.
Rhea, the ever-protective motherly figure, breaks from their line and gestures at
Naifi to stay. She hesitates, but makes her decision.
She breaks the Order’s rules, something she had warned Naifi to avoid at all costs,
and cuts through the nearest line of Yellows. The lines of children from all the colors still
their movement. Quiet overtakes the Factory. One by one, line by line, the orphans turn
to watch Rhea run after Suresh.
Rhea passes over a green line and follows Suresh on his journey towards the red
scar on the floor and the stolen boy. She grabs Suresh by his thick tattooed arm, her
fingers lightly touching the remaining dark brown cord buried under the river of red.
“Please Suresh, I can help him. You know me. By the Brown mother, I take
responsibility for this one.” Naifi strains his ears to hear their conversation.
A sneer dawns over his otherwise impassive face and Suresh shakes her hands off
him. “You’re as soft as I remember, Rhea.” He goes into a spasm of coughs and spits out
a glob of mucus on the red line at their feet. “You will take responsibility for your actions,
no one else’s. Get back in place.”
“Suresh, let the boy go. He still has a use.”
A cough rattles in his lungs as looks at her, “A use? You, an old worker too big
for the holes in the mine, are going to try and give me a lecture on usefulness?”
Naifi looks at down at the brown line and back up at Rhea’s retreating form. Torn
between the rules Rhea taught him and a desire to protect her from harm, Naifi hesitates
crossing the line.
13 Suresh starts to laugh to himself until another unintentional cough lands some
more mucus at the feet of the Rhea and the small boy.
Naifi, ignoring his fellow Brown’s imploring hands, steps across the line. Once a
rule is broken, the rest of them don’t seem so frightening.
Focusing only on Rhea, Naifi looks straight ahead and past the shocked
expressions on the nearby orphans. As Naifi gets closer to Rhea, Suresh notices Naifi’s
transgression and another flash of anger splashes across his face. He gestures at both of
the disobedient orphans with his free hand. “Since you like crossing lines so much, you
two maggots are in charge of taking this one to Factory Four.” A laugh escapes from
Suresh’s innermost depths and he lets the boy go into Rhea’s grasp, “So, step carefully
and get the hell out of my sight.”
They do not stop and consider the reason for his laugh. Instead, they just obey.
Naifi and Rhea support the silent nameless boy between them and only briefly hesitate
before crossing from the red into the yellow line. They follow the line out of the Factory
and into the city.
14 The Metropolis
Lines. Lines, once painted and now worn from the constant tread of orphans’ feet,
scar the landscape of the Metropolis. The crumbling visage of a former beautiful city run
into disuse and disorder greets the three figures exiting the Factory. Even in the outside
world, their lines rule them and define them.
Once made for an overpopulated city of commerce and trade, the forgotten
buildings loom over the streets and create a labyrinth-like maze of empty buildings and
workhouses full of workers. At its center is the Order’s City, a pristine splotch of white
against the ever-darkening stain of the surrounding factories and buildings. The light
from the early morning filters through the filth and the buildings above, creating a moon
lit-like haze despite the early hour.
“So, where to?” Naifi asks Rhea.
She looks around, shielding her eyes from the brightness. “He said Factory Four.”
Naifi adjusts his grip on the boy’s slumped body. “Where is that?” Naifi stops
walking, but continues scanning the empty windows and destroyed walls of the buildings
and the empty streets ahead. “You hate the Metropolis, don’t you?”
Rhea grabs the young boy under the armpits, walks along the Yellow line, and her
brown tattoo shimmers briefly in the light. “In my early days, they used to say that the
Metropolis was built like one of our nooks; each major Factory rests at a corner of the
Metropolis with the Order’s City resting comfortably at its center. Our Factory’s number
is Two. So, we just have to follow the Yellow’s Road until we pass two more of the
Factories… I just hate being on the streets alone. I’ve told you the stories.”
15 Naifi revels in the fresh air and watches the way the sunlight plays with Rhea’s
hair. “I don’t believe them. They are just more stories to keep us under the Order’s
control.” He picks up a stone from the ground and tosses it down the street.
She looks over her shoulder at the diminishing form of their home. “It’s different
when it happens to those you know. I remember them, the missing children that is, and
I’ll never forget them.”
Memory doesn’t bring back the dead. It only exemplifies an extinguished life.
“That’s not enough, Rhea. The dead will be remembered, but that’s nowhere near
enough.” Rhea smiles at his words and Naifi reaches his hand to her. Without seeing his
gesture, she turns away from him and continues walking. He clears his throat, puts his
hand back in his shift, and continues on. “So, what happens in this Factory Four?”
“It’s one of the other Factories. The older ones go there after they have no place
in the mines.”
“What do they factory?”
A rare laugh escapes from her lips and Naifi basks her mirth. “I don’t know, Naifi.
The other ones are in charge of food, lumber, and I think cloth.”
They both go on either side of the boy’s limp body and continue to follow the
yellow line. Finally, it slopes right and goes towards the next large Factory in the distance,
the Meat Factory.
The outside of the building looks like the outline of their Factory, but there its
resemblance ends. Instead of being at the root of a mountain, the Meat Factory stands at
the edge of the Wall along the outside wild. They walk along the empty cobbled street
16 slowly looking for a type of sign, but soon the overwhelming odor shows them their
destination.
From blocks away, the thick and musky aroma of a carcass left in the sun for too
long hangs in the air.
Naifi looks at the slumbering child in between them, daring to ask the question
that had been on his mind since they started their journey. “Do you know what happens
to the children who don’t fit in our Factory?”
Rhea continues looking forward, her jaw tightening. “They find a place for you
eventually. Sometimes they’ll move you to another color, give you more duties, but
that’s about it.”
Turning quickly, Naifi accidently lets the boy’s weight slip off of his shoulder and
the unconscious boy tumbles onto the cobblestones. He looks at Rhea. “I’ve heard that
some just disappear. They just get sent on an errand, or fall through a crack, and bamn!
No one ever hears from them again.”
“They tell us,” Rhea responds, “that this is our ‘rehabilitation.’ Why would they
kill us? As soon as we are of age, we will be able to transfer to the Factory of our choice.
Then we can work our way up. Until then, we are miners, or messengers, or guards, or
maybe even the jailers, if we are lucky. That is our life.”
Naifi and Rhea reach down and pull up the collapsed form between them. The
nameless boy’s pallid features and thin frame tell the story of a new orphan without a
friend to show him around. Without Rhea, Naifi would be in this boy’s place.
17 She checks to see if the nameless boy is alive and turns back to Naifi. “Each of us
has a place in the system. We just have to figure out what our individual role is and prove
that we deserve it.”
Factory Four’s box-like exterior serves only functionality and demeanor. The
building is the size of their Factory, but splotches of grass sporadically spot around the
building’s perimeter. Large spires of steel and stone jet from the factory’s roof, spewing
out thick clouds of smoke into the air.
The thick clouds of charred flesh press against their skin as they approach the
building’s gritty exterior. Rhea gestures for him to ignore the large door and knocker,
which is easily accessible by the road. Instead, they walk around the eastern corner of the
building, step up to the back door, and Rhea proceeds to kick it with her foot.
Silence vanishes and the sound of her foot rapping against the door reverberates
throughout the Factory. Finally, the sound of something sliding across stone comes from
inside the building. They take a step back, dragging the boy’s still unconscious form
with them, and watch as the door opens slowly.
“Hello,” a small voice whispers from the darkness, “what are you doing here?”
“I’m from the Coal Factory. We’re supposed to see the Overseer about this boy.
One of the Red’s sent us here, but there’s been a mistake. I need to speak with the
Overseer.”
The darkness begins to clear and they make out the shape of a little figure against
the rough candlelight inside the Factory.
A small girl, barely twelve years old, emerges from the darkness, blinking against
the bright noon light. The girl, her skin the color of the earth, wears the stitched remnants
18 of an adult meat worker’s shortened overalls and in her left hand she clutches the arm of
a worn stuffed creature.
The little girl points towards the door of the factory. “He’s in here. I can take you
if you want.”
Rhea, the ever motherly, is distracted by the boy’s health and absorbed in his
shallow breathing. So, Naifi does what feels natural. He does what he thinks is right. He
shoulders more of the boy’s weight, he takes control, and he looks towards the girl’s
reed-like body ahead of them. “Lead on, girl.”
She walks ahead of them, dragging her animal behind her. The animal’s brown
fur is worn away with use, but the stitched on frown never seems to waver. Together they
walk into the Factory.
“So, what’s his name?” Naifi asks, gesturing to the little girl’s forlorn companion.
The little girl stops and looks at Naifi thoughtfully for a long moment. She pays
attention to Naifi and she gestures to her stuffed animal. “His name is Harry…. and he
says I shouldn’t trust you.”
Despite Rhea’s look of annoyance, Naifi lets go of the boy for a moment and
shows the girl that there is nothing hidden in his hands. “Look, we’re just here to do our
job, nothing more, nothing less.”
Rhea’s voice rises with tension. “We have to continue onward. He is getting
worse.”
The little girl looks at him again, with the same determined stare, before finally
making a decision. After another moment, she nods and leads them deeper into the
bowels of the factory.
19 The inside of Factory Four looks as plain as the outside, yet its uniformity masks
the destruction within. The standard worker nooks make up the walls of the buildings,
while the mechanics rest deeper inside. Unlike their Factory, walls partition each section
of Factory Four’s operations. There is no open space. The lines are not immediately clear.
Naifi presses his hand against the side of the Factory to steady himself against the
boy’s increasing seizures. Rhea, with a hand steady from cycles of similar experience,
holds the boys tongue in order to keep him from swallowing it.
Naifi turns back to the impatient girl. “So, why are there walls everywhere?”
“Do you want to see your food killed in front of you?” she responds.
“Good point,” he mutters. “But, what about all these machines? Why do we need
all of these gears, just to eat?”
Naifi gestures to one of the machines, as its rhythm of shakes, whines, and
screams reach a crescendo of sound and steam. The girl’s eyes light up and in an instant
she runs towards it. She runs to the side of the machine, pulls out an empty container
from her frock, and puts it up to one of the nozzles sticking from the machine’s side. The
girl looks around feverishly as a pink paste-like liquid, of an origin that no one dares ask
about, pours out from the nozzle and into the jug.
The workers lose their humanity to hunger.
In the time it takes for Naifi and Rhea to exchange a worried glance, workers rush
from the edges of their vision with various size containers surrounding the machine and
the girl.
20 One of the larger workers, red tattoos encircling his neck and face, steps up and
pushes the girl away from the nozzle. He grabs hold of her container and tries to pull it
away. Despite her size, she sets her jaw and refuses to let go.
The thick Red, a sweaty heavy-set male older than any Naifi had seen, pulls the
girl up by the container and stares in her eyes.
“Why are you here, girl,” he growls at her.
“Let go, Gratch!” The girl’s lithe leg kicks out towards the thick trunk of a man.
Gratch’s thick frame shakes with a forced laugh, “I will break arm off, if you
don’t drop.”
She steadies her movement.
“Good girl. Drop and let big boys collect.”
Suddenly, her frame swings forward and her feet connect solidly with the man’s
face. Gratch drops the jug, falls to his knees, and the girl scampers away.
He howls in pain and looks around furiously for her. “You broke nose, sewer-rat!”
He grabs a fleeing worker. “Find her.”
Naifi and Rhea drag the boy out from the outskirts of the room and Rhea tries to
interject on the little girl’s behalf. “Wait, that girl was just helping me find my way.”
Blood-streaming from his face, Gratch’s eyes alight with fire and find Rhea’s.
“What you want, orphans?”
“We’re just here to speak to the Overseer. Suresh the Red said he would know we
were coming.” She shrugs and gestures to the finally waking form of the small boy.
21 Gratch grabs hold of his nose and jerks it to the left. A wet cracking noise sounds
throughout the room and Gratch spits a stream of blood onto the work floor. “So, deliver
it and leave. We have work to do.”
Rhea leaves the boy in Naifi’s hands. “We can’t leave here until we talk to the
new Overseer.”
He gestures to the inner workings of the factory. “Her insides are for those who
prove selves. I new Overseer, but can’t teach you. New girl, you take weak boy to other
room.”
Naifi and Rhea begin moving the boy when Gratch puts his hand on Naifi. “You,
stay. You make delivery. It goes directly to Papa.”
Naifi bristles at Gratch’s words. “I’m not leaving Rhea.”
Gratch’s face contorts again with rage and he smacks Naifi in the face with the
back of his hand.
Rhea steps in and grabs Gratch by the arm. “Gratch, I’ll go with you. He’s just a
boy.” She looks at Naifi and tries to smile at him encouragement, but he can see the fear
under the veneer. “I’ll be back before you know it. Stop making this into such a big thing.”
Naifi looks into her eyes, but the usual twinkle is nowhere to be found. She
shoulders the rest of the boy’s weight and walks out of the far exit. Soon after, a group of
the older Meat Factories workers heft their various jugs and scythes to follow the two
orphans.
Naifi swallows his pride, his blood, and his fear for his friend; he tries to focus on
the task at hand.
He catches a brief glimpse of her smile before she is shuffled behind the next door.
22 Although he doesn’t want to admit it, Naifi can’t help but think that this is the last
time he would see her.
Naifi remembers the situation at hand and looks back at Gratch.“Papa? The
orphans are not allowed to see him.”
“Stupid boy. I tell you to go, you go. Tell Suresh about package, he put you on
right line.” Gratch chuckles to himself. “The fat Red be happy.”
Gratch disappears behind the door next to the nearest food-machine and comes
back with a large satchel hanging over his back. He takes the sack – the bottom
seemingly soaked in red dye – off his shoulder and tosses it at Naifi.
Naifi tries to catch it, but its weight drives him to the ground.
“Ha-ha, boy, you must lift with knees. Now, go out way you came!” Gratch turns
away from Naifi and continues to walk down a separate tunnel carrying on a conversation
with no one.
“Wait, what about my friend?”
Gratch stops and looks back at Naifi. “Run along, new child. Girl is here. Home
now.”
“That’s not what you just said.”
“Orders change. Now, I find rat and show how safe she is.” Gratch’s mutterings
follow Naifi as he tries and trace his steps back to the entrance. But in the dark,
everything looks the same.
He follows his line, but it takes him deeper into the unfamiliar Factory.
23 “Damn the gods, where the hell is the exit.”
A lithe figure drops from above and stands at Naifi’s feet.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“Well, tell me how to get out of here then.”
The girl, her black hair sheared close to her head, points back to the way Naifi had
walked from.
“You missed the third door after the fourth machine.” At his blank stare, she
continues. “Follow me.”
Naifi walks after her, stopping every few moments for breath. During one of their
stops, Naifi asks her a question. “Are you going to abandon me again?”
The little girl disappears ahead of him, but her voice still finds him. “I didn’t
abandon you. I took you to the Overseer and left. Our agreement was completed.”
“Yeah, well what happened back there anyway?”
“The Overseer says that because I don’t work, I don’t get food. But,” her eyes
light up with their previous mischievous spark, “when the machines overheat, someone
has to drain the excess paste.”
“So, you did that? You made the machine go all crazy.”
She scoffs at him. “No, I’m not of the Order. Am I in white? I just know when the
machines are about to seize up, so I survive. Come on, we’re getting close now.”
She runs farther along the tunnel and leaves Naifi to slowly make his way to the
front alone. Naifi shifts the newest burden on his back, the interior contents sloshing with
his movement, and he tries to catch up.
“How do you know about all this?”
24 He hears her steps stop sharply ahead. “When you’re small, people forget…Oh,
just be quiet and wait here.” Naifi’s hears a slight shifting of rocks and a muffled scream.
Without a thought to his own safety, Naifi runs forward and walks through the
last door. Finally, he finds himself facing the main entryway. But, at the doors, two of
the younger workers hold the girl’s arms behind her. Gratch steps out of the from behind
the workers, smiling.
Before Naifi even has a chance to open his mouth in protest, Gratch slams his fist
into the girl’s stomach. Naifi looks away and grunts with the sound of the impact. Gratch
notices Naifi’s reaction and smiles.
“Ah, you here boy. Watch this.” Gratch grabs hold of one of the girl’s flailing
arms and starts to pull on it. His arms flex and a slow ripple of muscle forms underneath
the layers of fat encasing him.
A deep groan of pain and fear escapes the girl’s lips.
“Stop! You’re going to kill her.”
Without looking up from his task, he responds to Naifi. “No kill. Just hurt, maim.
Not too bad. Need to learn respect elders, Overseer.”
“No, you can’t!” Naifi steps towards the three of them.
He releases the girl’s arm and steps towards Naifi. “Can’t? I Overseer, boy. Back
off, you no want to be like friend.”
Naifi keeps his face serene, trying hide the raging sea of hatred within. “Of course,
you are the Overseer. I just mean that Papa would be angry if you hurt her.”
Gratch stays his hand. “What does orphan know about Papa? Orphans no allowed
see Papa.”
25 Naifi sets his bag down. “You know, as well as I, that orphans belong to the State.”
The thick worker’s smile falters and he looks towards his cronies for support. Finding no
welcoming cheers or smiles, he loosens his grip on the girl slightly. Suddenly, and with a
roar, Gratch swings one of his fists at the girl’s head. The connection of his large cudgellike fist to her solid skull makes a sickeningly wet thump. She crumples onto the floor.
Gratch turns and snarls at Naifi, “She’s yours.” Graft’s color deepens to a darker
shade of red. “Get out! Take girl with you!”
Naifi, trying to mimic the motherliness that Rhea gave unconditionally to him,
grabs the girl’s slumped form with one arm and the bag for delivery with the other.
At the Sun’s setting – the light outlining their shapes against the starless night sky
– they finally arrive back at the Factory. Naifi’s frail form shudders from the Sickness,
but always the stubborn, he continues to drag the package and the girl block after block.
At one point her right eye flutters open, the left still too swollen from Graft’s
attack to move. “Where am I?” She says to him.
“Home,” Naifi says to her.
In response, her eyes roll back into her head. Once again, her body relaxes in his
arms.
26 Naifi steps into his Factory, the first time he truly thinks of it that way, before a
callused heavy hand comes out and stops him. “Naifi, you leave with two people and
come back with one. What did you do for the last four hours?”
“I made the delivery, Suresh. But while I was there, I found a runaway who hasn’t
been processed yet.”
Suresh plucks the girl easily from Naifi’s shoulder and tosses her over his own.
“Not bad work Naifi. So, what’s with the sack?” Suresh walks around and tries to
examine the bag on his shoulder.
“I don’t know, but the Meat Overseer said that I was to deliver this to Papa
directly.”
Suresh shies away from the sack, his face slightly tensing. “Then why are you
waiting, go!”
Naifi starts to walk away, but stops and turns back towards the towering Red.
“Suresh, what happened to Rhea?”
Suresh’s lips curl up slightly at the sound of her name, his eyes lingering on the
bag over his shoulder. “You’ve been babied here too long, Naifi. If you want to be
Raised, you have to learn how to take care of yourself. Rhea broke the rules. She crossed
the lines and I had to tell Papa. So, Rhea won’t be here anymore. Be glad she was the
only one to leave. Don’t keep Papa waiting.”
“What does that mean Suresh?”
“It means Papa chose her role for her.”
Naifi stops in his tracks, but Suresh continues to walk towards the nooks. “Why
didn’t you tell us this beforehand, Red?”
27 The Red continues walking across the lines, outside of Naifi’s control; the sounds
of Suresh’s wheezing only fuels Naifi’s desire for more answers.
Naifi walks down the rows of soot-covered machinery, back on his line, doing
what Rhea taught him to do, survive. Naifi tries to keep thoughts about her from bubbling
to the surface, but his lips tremble at the thought of her being under Gratch’s control.
What did they do to her? He follows the faded brown bar of paint. It passes the tracks to
the mine and it veers right next to the hole, to an intersection point where every color
meets. The lines lead towards a series of ropes and pulleys. Above him, a structure the
size of the mine hangs from heavy chains above the hole.
Two Reds stand at attention next to a platform on the ground. When Naifi
approaches, they relax and gesture towards a wooden dais. He follows their eye line and
steps on the platform. They each grab a rope and begin to give slack to the large weight
above. The platform jerks upward and the men continue their task. Again, the Factory
opens up before him.
At the center of the Factory, above the hole, Papa watches over them all. The
rooftop residence, not so lovingly nicknamed Papa’s Nest by the orphans, comes into
Naifi’s view. Papa has two floors of the structure to himself. An observation deck juts out
from the roof and lets him watch the Factory floor, while his personal living space sticks
out of the Factory rooftop into the somewhat clean air above.
A Red escorts Naifi off of the platform and onto the observation deck. Unlike the
wooden and stone nooks in the walls of Factory, Papa’s home is a metal and stone box
28 jutting from the ceiling of the Factory. The oppressive weight of steel enclosure and the
two heavy chains remind the children that Papa is always there; he is always watching
them.
Naifi steps inside Papa’s observation deck. His bare feet press against a fabriclike substance softer than anything he had felt in a long time. He scrunches his toes into
the plushness of the deck and enjoys the texture before he looks down at his dirty toes
splayed across the crystal white rug; Naifi looks back up in fear.
He says the word slowly, tasting it on his tongue as he speaks it, like a flavor long
ago lost. “Carpet? Is this Carpet?”
A flash of concern splays across the nearest Red guard’s face, but a voice from
the center of the room quells him before he can say anything.
“Yes, it is.” He gestures restraint to his guard. “My boy, don’t worry. He doesn’t
know our customs yet. Not many remember, but some do. In the beginning, they say it
used to happen all the time.” A heavy older man with a gray beard and a balding head
comes into view as Naifi steps closer to the large throne at the center of the room. “Sorry,
Olaf here loves our traditions. So do I, as you’ll find out. Tradition is a part of us, it
defines us.”
Naifi watches as the jovial mask slips and the glint of a forest fire of controlled
anger behind the man’s eyes betrays his true nature. “So next time, do not speak before I
speak.” He smiles at Naifi again, barely suppressing a cough. “For now, welcome. You’re
my guest. Relax.”
Papa’s eyes greedily fawn over the package on Naifi’s shoulder.
29 “That’s for me, right? Special delivery, just for Papa.” After the words leave his
mouth, Papa is overcome by a coughing fit that racks his body and forces him to hack up
mucus. “Well, what are you doing, my boy? Bring it here! Bring her to me!”
White spittle, tinged with globs of membranous mucus, flecks out at the corner of
Papa’s mouth. He points to a spot in front of him. “You can set it down right there.”
Naifi sets the bag down gently and a gentle sloshing and thumping within sounds
hollowly against the carpet.
Papa starts to cough again. He gestures to a Red, who takes the sack into the room
farthest from view. Papa’s coughs settle down, the waves of fat slightly rippling, and he
looks at Naifi closely. “Your name is Naifi, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Papa.” He says.
Naifi looks up at his Master, his Puppeteer, his Papa. Although fires of hatred boil
in Naifi’s belly at the thought of this man controlling his destiny, he tries to keep the heat
from his voice.
“Sorry. Yes, Papa.”
“Well, my little Suresh tells me that you were quite the helper today. Not only
did you bring me my little delivery, but you also found a runaway. Very good.”
“Papa,” Naifi says, “she didn’t run away. I don’t know how she got there. But she
was in Factory Four, and she doesn’t look like she’s been processed.”
“No matter.” Coughs rack Papa’s fatty limbs and force him to stop mid-sentence.
When he has the breath, he continues. “She’s processed and a member of the family now.”
This time, Naifi tries to soften his tone.
30 “Papa, is she ok?”
“The new girl? She’s fine, but we were talking about you. You are proving
yourself quite the useful child. Papa likes your initiative. Keep it up and you might find
yourself in Red. ”
“No, what about Rhea? Why did you move her?”
Without moving from his throne or disturbing the jovial expression on his face,
Papa’s eyes cut into Naifi.“What did I say, boy? Just worry about your own hide, learn
from the past. Prove yourself; watch over the new girl. Just make sure you know your
place. Don’t be like your dearly missed friend Rhea. Make sure this one falls in line and
learns the ropes quick.”
Naifi opens his mouth in protest, but he eyes the nearest well-fed Red’s angry
scowl and speaks. “Yes, Papa.”
Papa’s eyes soften on Naifi once again. He turns to a nearby table, grabs a round
chunk of barely roasted meat, and tosses it to Naifi. “Here’s to a successful day, but
remember, don’t disappoint. Disappointments don’t last long.”
He reaches out to the table and grabs another haunch of meat. He takes a large
bite out of it and then waves it at Naifi in dismissal.
Holding the meat in his mouth, Naifi savors its flavor. He tastes and smells the
succulent flesh all at once. Its flavor is familiar to him, but soon his mind wanders, too
absorbed in the sensation of a full belly. He climbs up the wall to his nook. He’s one of
31 the first home, so the stillness of the Factory sets his nerve on edge. Naifi pulls himself to
his nook and sits in his usual position with his feet dangling above the Factory floor.
A female hand reaches out from above and lightly shoves his shoulder. With the
meat still in his mouth and the beginning of a smile starting to show, Naifi grabs hold of
the edge of the above nook and pulls himself up to see Rhea. “They told me you were
Raised, but I was worried when you didn’t say goodbye.”
A smaller grubbier face greets him instead of Rhea’s.
Naifi’s smile falters and he looks away the girl formerly of Factory Four. He
looks up at Papa’s metal home, drops of moisture gathering along his eyelashes. He
thinks of Rhea and all of the other orphans. He wipes his arm across his face. Although
he only thinks it, he swears an oath to us for revenge against his enemies. He will never
let the Order stop him. His eyes are clear, but the veins in his neck begin to stand out. He
grits his teeth and when he speaks his voice is clear of tears.
“Hey there, remember me?”
Wide eyed, but without noticeable fear, the girl scans the Factory. “What’s going
on?”
“It’s okay”, Naifi says. “You’re at the Coal Factory in the South Sector. I’m Naifi.
What’s your name?”
“Eva. Yeah. I remember you. You’re the one with the friend.”
At even that vague mention of Rhea, Naifi can’t help but flinch. “Well Eva, the
first thing you have to learn is your color. We are Browns. We are responsible for the
coal, for the mine. If you want to stay alive, remember Papa is always watching.”
32 He hangs down and reaches into his nook. He places a piece of bread in Eva’s lap
and they watch the lines below become filled with the bodies of their Brothers and Sisters.
“I’ll be here to walk you through it. I’m not going anywhere.”
33 Awake, Yet Not
Naifi sleeps, but his mind stirs. Again, without meaning to, he slips into the other
world. The nook around him disappears. He doesn’t wake, that wouldn’t quite be the
word. A piece of him, long dormant, becomes alive again.
He opens his eyes, but the world around him changed in Between. The Factory’s
abyss and the ever-present smell of coal and death is nowhere to be found. The clean
mountainside, surrounded by an occasional sapling and a clear sky, stands at a bright
contrast to his world, to his everyday.
Naifi takes a deep breath and stares ahead. He feels the muscles behinds his eyes
tightening and realizes that he can see farther than he can ever see awake. In the distance,
he sees a City unlike his in many ways. Towers of steel and glass stretch to the sky and
Factories full of machines produce their products. Like the puppets in his world, the
people in horseless carriages whir along the streets at high speeds just to go about their
everyday business a tad faster than normal. Beyond this City he sees an ocean, and across
that ocean he sees another City, and beyond that City he sees even another Factory.
He looks to the immediate world around him. The ground below him feels wet
and spongy. He runs his hands through the shoots underneath and brings it to his nose.
Even in the Shadow Realm, life finds a way. He inhales a long forgotten scent of earth
and air; he looks at his stained green fingers and remembers a name. Grass.
He blinks, and in that moment between breaths, he feels the world turn around
him. The grass covered mountain fades into the ruined streets of the Metropolis. The
familiar discomfort of the stones on his backside reminds him of his task. He gets up and
runs down the ruined streets of the Metropolis. But this time he doesn’t run away, he runs
34 to find her, ever inward.
“Rhea!” He waits, but the sound of his lone voice echoing off of city walls is his
only answer.
I have to save her. He runs into the heart of the Metropolis screaming her name
again.
He hears the wolves before he can see them, but he doesn’t stop his search. He
continues to run towards them. The wolves’ howls get louder, but he doesn’t turn away;
he continues forward.
He runs deeper into the Metropolis and the City’s white gates loom ahead of him.
But there, the resemblance ends to the City in his world. Instead of the pristine white
stone city that emanates the power and purity of the Order, there is only a broken hole in
the earth dropping off into nothingness.
From the hole, an inky shadow of darkness spreads its grasp, infecting the
landscape, and further warping the world. Even at this distance, he can feel the hatred and
destruction of the darkness. Within the City, there is only infection and death.
Naifi approaches and the gates make away from him. The smell of iron fills his
nostrils before he sees the lightly glowing figure outlined against the jet-black abyss.
“Rhea! Run!”
As he gets closer, he becomes less sure of her identity. Instead of his lost friend,
the figure of the older matronly woman in a brown cloak greets him, tapping her foot in
impatience.
“Who? Oh, your lost friend. Don’t be foolish, boy. I’m not lost, nor am I a girl.
Just sit down.”
35 Still caught up in the dream, Naifi waves his hands at her to move and shouts.
“They’re after me, run!” She ignores him.
“There’s no more time for this nonsense, boy.” The pack of wolves comes into
sight. The lead wolf sees the both of them; the feverish need in her eyes ignites the fires
of desire in her surrounding pack mates. The matronly woman sighs and points at the
pack.
A low rumbling courses throughout the ground. The main white wolf stops at the
noise and looks at the woman; the wolf’s hair slowly stands on end. Her white paws sink
into the mud slowly, but after a moment the wolf tries to move and realizes that she is
stuck. A howl full of hatred resounds from deep within her chest.
Naifi watches as the rest of the pack slows and their paws slowly sink into the
dirt around them, joining their leader.
“See, it’s not that hard, especially here. Here we can access our true power.”
Naifi turns to back towards the woman. “What in the four gods are you even
talking about?”
She chuckles at his slack jawed stare. “It’s funny. You have your memories, yet
you still let the Order indoctrinate you.”
The wolves stop sinking into the mud, but they continue to howl in anger and
frustration. Still, the lead wolf doesn’t take her eyes off of them. She strains against the
mud and bares her teeth at Naifi.
“Who are you?”
“That’s a better question, child. Now we are getting somewhere.”
The woman’s mismatched eyes find Naifi’s. Despite the wolves’ howls, he stares
36 into their brown and green depths and feels a warm and comforting sensation of arms
encircling him. After what seems to Naifi as an eternity, she breaks eye contact with him
and runs her hand over the ground. The ground rumbles beneath his feet and a mound of
dirt slowly rises below her. With a gentle wave, the earth supports her and forms into a
throne around her.
“You can call me Mother, or Gaea, or Hera, or Goddess. At the end of the day,
I’m all of them and none of them. Sit, Naifi.”
When he doesn’t follow suit quick enough for the earthen toned woman’s taste,
Naifi feels the earth swarm around his body; the earth picks him up and brings him to eye
level with the Goddess.
“How did you do that?”
“You are really dense aren’t you? This is the Shadow Realm. This is where the
worlds intersect. All of our powers are stronger here than anywhere else.”
She runs her fingers on the earthen arm of her throne, tracing circles into its
material. Like a bubble rising to the surface, the dirt strains against the traced outline of
the circle. The sphere breaks free from the armrest, floats to their eye level, and slowly
rotates in the air. The surface of the sphere ripples and changes. She speaks.
Long ago, before there was form, before I was even a thought, there was only
Father Chaos. Even the concept of him is incomprehensible to a mere mortal, yet look to
the skies and you will see evidence that his power was once incontrovertible.
37 Father Chaos, the all-powerful and the all-knowing, made up the Universe
without a filter, without purpose, without destination. He was the voice of pure power
and destruction, all in one.
Out of the storm of destruction, voices within the interstices of our Father’s being
became clear. Within Chaos, voices sang themselves into form.
Chaos discovered fear, but he did not understand. He clutched his head and fell
to his knees. Out of the multitude of voices, four figures began to take shape within his
skull. We pressed against his consciousness, calling for agency, striving for form.
Then, with a crack, his head broke in twain and the cosmos was released. Our
voices drowned him, changed him, and split our Father’s powers between us.
Thus, we were born into existence. We spilled out from him, forming ourselves
with the reshaped cosmos.
He became was and we became is.
Like a spilled over bucket, Chaos fell and filled in around our spots of form and
creation scarring the sky with his nothingness.
Once, we were four. We were the four elements, which made up the expanding
existence. With our very expulsion from the Father, we began to shape and order the
universe around us.
With this power of inherent balance, we expanded and filled in the gaps Chaos
tried to create. We poked holes of life into the spreading curtain of Chaos; but it was not
enough. Slowly but surely, the scales began to tip back to his balance.
38 At every turn, we fought him. We tried to make sense of the cosmos. This struggle
defined us; it made us into a force to be reckoned with. It forced us into the position of
Gods.
But soon we realized that the sky was not enough. For every spot of light we
created within our Father’s fallen form, he would snuff out two. Despite his dissolution of
power and formlessness, Father continued his advances throughout the sky.
Your ancestors, my child, were our solution. We realized that by ourselves, we
could not fight our Father. The shadow had stretched too far and too long for each of us
to take on our own. We needed to unite, as we once had, and create a new being out of all
of our powers.
So, each of us took a fragment of our pure power and we combined them together
to make your ancestors. We were forced to be Creators again.
But, we found we liked it. Like newly planted seedlings, we’d watch as my earth
nurtured our children, my brother’s water filled their veins, my sister’s breath helped
them speak, and my brother’s fire warmed their spirit.
For a time, the scales tipped in our direction and this was a time of happiness and
celebration for both of our people.
We felt that your people earned the right of life, luxury, and understanding of the
world around them. We kept our powers in check, but we taught your people to see the
world as it is. We taught them to see past the material world and see the vibrating lines of
existence.
Like a mother, I watched over your ancestors as their societies grew and
developed; I helped them out as much as I could.
39 It wasn’t long until my brothers, my sister, and I stopped simply celebrating our
creations and we began to love them.
Societies sprang up around each of us Elements, as they called us, dedicated to
worship. Once they realized that our power flowed through them, it changed the way they
saw the world. The fantastic became second to ordinary and the ordinary became unimaginable. More and more, our Children began to use their abilities to convince the
world around them to bend to their will. Using their affinity to control elements, and their
ability to see into the smallest lines of existence, your ancestors abused their powers and
did what they wished.
Yet the more power they used, the lesser control my brothers and sister had. Over
time, the weather worsened and the scheduled maintenance of the world around was
taken from us.
We found that our grip had begun to slip and Chaos had tipped the scale in his
favor.
Knowing the end was at hand, we pled with our Children to be wary of the future.
“Father Chaos is coming,” we said. “You, our children, are the only things
standing in his way. Keep the Balance at all costs.”
But, they ignored the warnings and continued to satisfy their own desires. Like
throwing tinder to a flame, your people used our powers more and more until our Father
expanded again.
Father Chaos’s extensive tentacles spread into the hearts of all of our Children.
When the time came, some even conspired, plotted, and revolted against us at Chaos’s
behalf.
40 The Great War began, a war of terror and pain, a war of pride. Brother fought
brother. Some fought for the glory of Chaos, while the remaining loyal fought for the
sanctity of Order. For a time, Chaos seemed to be stretch across existence once again.
High above the world, our Father began to take shape. For every misused force of
creation, a negative pocket of destruction was formed. These pockets of nothingness
began to gather until it coalesced into Chaos, the form of the formless; the large cloud of
darkness touched our world and tainted it with his presence.
Meeting again, as we did at the very beginning, we gathered ourselves together.
The distant clangs and shouts of battle drifted towards us, but we paid it no mind. We
four joined together and met the cloud of smoke-like shadow dead on.
Only a handful of your ancestors were there to witness our final confrontation. As
Father Chaos’s cloud neared us, he began to take on the form of our Children, a human
shape. We, your Gods, our eyes fluttering closed, walked steadily towards the hardening
almost human-like form of our ancient enemy.
Father Chaos turned away, but found that he could no longer flee. With a
physical form, came a physical limitation. Like a whirlpool, we were circling him, a
magnetization pulling us all into tighter and tighter concentric circles. Faster and faster
we circled until no form could be distinguished from one another. In the next moment, it
stopped as it began, with a large bang.
Naifi sits at the edge of the earthen chair, his face focusing on the matronly figure
still spinning the globe.
“And then?”
41 “What do you mean and then? And then we left your people to do what they tend
do to, take advantage of each other.”
The wolves continue to sink into the mud. As they begin to realize their
predicament, their howls increase in pitch and turn to cries of fear.
Even the main wolf begins to strain against the mud. Naifi watches them sink
deeper. Their movements become jerkier and less precise. One of the wolves tries to
jump away, but the mud stops any chance of that. The snap of the wolves’ legs, the wet
thwack of the body hitting the mud, and the slowing throes of the unlucky wolf, ring in
Naifi’s ears. He tries to look away, but the wolf’s auburn eyes lock onto his own. They
hold him in place until the wolf’s movements stop.
Another wolf falls on its side.
He turns and yells at the woman. “Stop this!”
“I thought this is what you wanted?”
“Just end it!”
“Didn’t you want torture your enemies? To make them feel how you feel?”
A spark flickers behind his eyes and he stands up out of his chair. “Leave me be!”
Without warning, earth and fire erupts from the ground. These eruptions increase
in consistency and duration until finally a wall of dirt and glowing fire forms and rushes
towards the wolves. The wolves try to find a way out, but there is no escape. Naifi wants
to throw up, he wants to look away, he wants to die; but at the same time, he feels a need
to see them burn, to see them suffer.
Sense is memory. When the smell of burnt hair, smoldering earth, and charred
flesh, reaches his nose, he can’t suppress the memory of a similar aroma. Although he
42 tires to ignore the thought, he remembers the same heavy odor, full of death, clinging to
his very being outside of the Meat Factory. Try as he might, even here, he can not forget
about Rhea’s sad smile as she walked through the Meat Factory door.
The wolves die and the last jerks of their bodies slow their movements. Finally,
the fire finishes burning away the remnants of the wolves’ hair and the remainder of their
flesh. Eventually, the hissing stops, the smoke clears, and only the charred boulder-like
mounds of ash remain.
The earthen-toned woman stares at him blankly, but she could never hold a mask
for long; her mismatched watch him with hawk like precision.
Naifi steps across the burnt earth and looks at the first mound of ash where the
pack leader formally stood. He reaches out and touches the remainder of the ash shell. As
his fingers graze the perfectly blackened egg-like ash remains, it cracks. Cracks seem to
spider web across the shell until the ashes start to crumble away. When the ash settles at
his feet, Naifi sees Rhea’s huddled dead form within.
The boy cries out and rushes towards his fallen friend, unbidden tears falling from
his face. His arms encircle her. He holds her close. He tries to tell her how much she
meant to him, but only tears spring from his eyes. They run down his cheeks and rain
down on her head.
Still, he feels the weight of her body resting on his lap. He feels the world around
him. He looks down and sees a speck of green on the top of Rhea’s head. He lowers his
eyes and watches. The speck soon becomes a shoot of green and extends out towards him.
The woman on the throne of earth watches the boy cry. Her form slowly fades,
becoming less discernable, less there.
43 He reaches his hand out, but feels nothing.
In fact, everything seems to slowly fade for Naifi. His tears drown out the rest of
the world, blurring his sight and clogging up his dream. He feels himself fading away, but
still he hears her voice following him.
“Interesting.”
44 The Spark
Naifi awakes to a sharp prod in the large spaces between his ribs. He opens his
eyes and sees her small frame facing away from him and balances on the edge of his
nook towards the factory.
As with every morning since his capture, Naifi’s hands automatically clutch his
belly; with a well-practiced reflex, he swallows his pain and tries to move on, but it still
marks him.
He faces her. “What do you want, Eva?”
She doesn’t turn away from the Factory floor, her new home, and she doesn’t
answer. She ignores him. After a moment, Naifi shuffles forward, his head brushing his
ceiling, and he sits at the edge of his nook.
Like the stone monsters on the walls of the Order’s City, Eva’s thin form, outlined
by the torchlight, stands watch over the floor of Factory below. She grips a small stuffed
animal’s hand and it dangles from her grasp. Slowly, the animal spins from her
outstretched hand in concentric circles above the factory floor.
She pulls the snub nosed toy to her chest. “We don’t like it here. It feels wrong.”
Again, the Sickness eats away at Naifi; the coughs begin again. They rack his
body and force him to lean out of his home to spit a dark glob of phlegm off the edge. He
listens for the splat of the spit on the factory floor below.
“Two seconds until it hits the ground. You know. You’re new here. This has only
begun, but if you know how, you can survive.”
Thinking of Rhea’s tutelage, Naifi holds back his annoyance at the Eva and tries
to explain the rules to her. “Look, you heard the Red, I’m not going to be here long. I’m
45 changing colors and I have a friend to find before I can leave. So, you’re going to have to
learn the rules fast. Just follow your color’s line and do what the kids in front of you do.
Right now, we are in the Brown’s line; we work the mines. Next to them are the Greens
who deliver coal and take orders all over the city. Then come the Red’s who report
directly to Papa and disperse the coal and food. Finally, the silent White serve only the
Order. Then they repeat. Just follow your painted line; it isn’t that hard. Get it?”
She pulls her stuffed animal closer to her. “I’m no kid. I don’t need anyone to take
care of me.”
“Then shut up and stop acting like one. They are going to give you a color today
and then you are on your own. Just stay small, keep to yourself, and learn your new role.
You need to know this to survive. I’m not having someone’s death hang over my head
because you don’t know their rules.”
After he says the words, Naifi’s mind can’t help but think about Rhea. The soft
rustle of a tunic warns the two of them of an intruder, but they can’t take their words back.
“Our rules, my new brother. Remember, today is your promotion day.” The red
stripe on a worker’s muscled forearm comes into view slightly after his words. A wellmuscled teenager stares down his nose – in any other place it would be called royal – at
the two of them. Despite his physique, he rests in Naifi’s nook and pauses to catch his
breath. Sweat drips off of the pale teenager’s nose and onto a cloth tunic in his hands. He
wipes his face with the red cloth and throws the new tunic at Naifi.
“You know, some of us didn’t think you’d ever do it, but Papa must see
something in you. You better fall in line now that you’ve earned your Reds. Don’t forget,
you’ll have to report to the Inker today.”
46 Naifi hesitates to touch the blood red tunic.
“Naifi, take your new uniform.”
The Red stops his journey and uses the time to catch his breath. “Now that Papa
promoted you, you’ll have a better nook to sleep in and better food. Plus, you won’t need
to take care of rats like this except with your stick.”
The regal-like Red looks at Eva, finally realizing she is there. “What are you
doing out of your nook, little one?” She stares ahead and ignores his question.
Naifi finally talks to the guard. “Ash, leave her alone.”
“You’re not a Brown anymore, Naifi. Reds don’t put up with disobedience.”
He turns his eyes back on the girl. “When a Red is talking to you, you must
respond. Do you hear me?” He takes a stick from a loop in his belt and swings it in front
of Eva’s face. She stops pretending to stare at the Factory and shifts her gaze to him; for a
moment, her facade breaks and a wave of hate rises to the surface, yet she keeps body
still and unfazed by his threat.
To the Order, fear is control. The Reds fear the Order and everyone else fears the
Reds.
Ash’s face contorts into a demon-like expression of hatred and he swings the stick
at the girl’s temple.
Naifi takes hold of a nearby stone rung – feeling the strength of the stone
underneath his fingers – and grabs hold of Ash’s wrist. The strength of the stone calls to
Naifi. He feels the pebbled surface of the stone and he sees the layers of time and
sediment that makes it up. Naifi feels his arm becoming stone, he feels a rush of strength
fill his body and he holds the Red off balance. Ash starts to flail and slip off of the edge
47 of the nook, but Naifi outstretches his now trunk-like arm farther out and he holds Ash
steady.
Naifi’s voice breaks as he speaks, but his eyes never leave the guard’s. “I told you
to stop, Ash.” He gently guides Ash’s hand back to the rail and tries to soften his eyes
once again.
“Papa told me make sure she was trained her before I can fully move to the Red. I
can’t do that if you break her face open.”
Ash massages his wrist and steadies himself on the ladder with panicked, short
breaths. His bright blue eyes and dark brown hair stand out against the pallor of his skin,
yet a smile that never touches his eyes stains his face.
“You’re right, Naifi. I wouldn’t want Papa to be angry with me.” His smile falters
for a brief second, as his eyes fall back on Eva. “Especially over some Meat Factory
trash.” The smile returns and he gestures back to the outfit at Ash’s feet. “Welcome to the
family. Your first day is about to begin. I’ll see you down in line and you’ll get your new
instructions.”
“You’re lucky, girl. Papa usually puts the small ones, if they’re his taste, into his
personal guard.” He looks her up and down. “Maybe, you’re not that lucky. Since you’re
not really his type, you won’t last long in the mines.”
As he descends down towards his line, his face crinkles in contained mirth and a
heavy wheezing laugh exhales from his otherwise healthy looking body.
The bell rings and the rest of the torches along the factory walls sputter into life.
The children of the Factory wake from their slumbers, crawl from their nooks, and climb
48 down from the factory walls, to their daily routines, to their daily jobs, and to their daily
sufferings. Naifi crawls down from his brown colored nook for the last time.
Naifi swallows his pride and steps away from the brown column along the
Factory wall to join a nearby line of red.
While most of the brown lines center around the mine, the red lines spiral around
every seeming available space of the Factory; on the edges of every other line, work post,
and exit, a red line marks the ground and a red stripped guard walks along it. The Reds
walk along their line and keep watch over their “family.” Naifi, now a hand of the Order,
joins his new companions.
At first, none of his new brothers and sisters pay any attention to him. As he gets
farther away from his former brown domicile, the Red line splits into several different
lines, branching in every seeming direction. He stops at the crossroads, creating a logjam
of sleepy boys and girls, all marching to their day’s work.
“Get out of the way!”
Naifi turns to face the growing line behind him. “Look, lay off. Just tell me where
I am supposed to go.”
A pair of bony hands grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him towards one of
the many red branches going into the Factory. “Go left, new guy!” A couple of laughs
rush by him and another voice speaks up from far behind. “The kid doesn’t even have his
new band yet.”
Naifi walks forwards and turns to see the voice, but he is pushed forward and
loses the face in the gathering crowd. He continues following the new path he is forced
49 upon. Soon, near the West side of the mine, the line breaks away and joins a larger
rainbow-like bar of every color heading towards a small tent under Papa’s Nest.
He stops again, this time making sure there is no line of impatient orphans behind
him, and looks back at the tent.
His eyes are drawn above. Papa’s Nest, chains speckled with rust forming Papa’s
eye over the Factory, looms over him. The weight of the Nest’s shadow causes him to
forget himself and a desire to fall in line wells up within him. His usual anger and
rebelliousness is replaced with complacency. Never surrender. The thought hits him
briefly, but like a feather in a storm Naifi’s reservations are swept away again. The
pressure returns. The familiar feeling – like a serrated blade sawing into his intestines –
emanates from his navel.
He passes the flaps of the tent and crosses into the threshold before he can further
deliberate.
At the center of the tent, a small fire burns filling the space with heavy clouds of
smoke. A tall man, cloaked in white, hovers at the edges of the fire. Every once in awhile,
the figure reaches out and strokes the dancing flames with his hand.
Naifi stands there for a few more moments before the smoke starts to get to him.
He begins to cough; the Sickness flares up again and causes his usual light coughs to turn
into throatier and rougher hacking, which shakes his entire body.
The figure in white stands up from the fire.
“Let the smoke fill your lungs. Take deep measured breaths. Feel it enter you and
extend throughout your body.”
50 Naifi collapses onto his knees as he feels a darkness grow within. He concentrates
on the figure’s words and focuses on the smoke flowing through him. Soon he finds his
breath steadying and his thoughts becoming whole again.
He opens his eyes and sees the figure in white sitting across from him.
“Good. You learn quickly. They were right. We’ll see how you do with more
challenges.”
Despite the strangeness of the situation, Naifi’s heartbeats settle and he begins to
feel content. In the tent, the Factory seems eons away and for a moment he even forgets
about Rhea.
“I know you. I know this. What’s your name?”
“We have met, but it doesn’t matter. You won’t remember, they never remember.
You can call me Wren. Just prepare for your Raising.”
“What about Papa?”
“Papa has other things to do. You only need a Member of the Order to perform
the Raising.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m tired of talking. I’ll show you.”
The figure in white stands up and walks over to the simmering fire. He strokes the
flames with his bare hand once more, yet this time he digs his hand deeper into the fire.
Almost welcome to the man’s touch, the flames seem dance upon his fingertips.
Naifi actually looks at the fire. Instead of a flame, he sees thousands upon
thousands of intricate overlapping lines. All at once, he sees the tiny grooves inscribed on
51 the surface of the universe. He sees the shimmering cords of matter that vibrate with an
inner flame and tremble with an inherent power.
Like the splintering of a weathered rope, one of shimmering lines splits away
from the main cord and extends out from the fire. Lovingly, the smaller shoot of red
power wraps around Wren’s fingertips. The cord of light runs from his finger and spools
together into a tightly woven pinprick of light resting on his palm. With each second, the
fire at the tent’s center dwindles and the speck of light on his hand increases until finally
the glowing sphere is finally palm-sized.
“Come over here, boy.”
Naifi approaches the fire slowly. The man in white steps forward and grabs Naifi
by his tattooed arm. “I don’t have time for this. Just stand still.”
Wren puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out a sharp brown stick. The man
dips his stick into the red sphere, collecting a cord of red fire on its tip. Wren grabs
Naifi’s tattooed arm and plunges the stick above his previous Brown tattoo.
Naifi doesn’t struggle. He grits his teeth and concentrates on the pain he feels
every day. The false contentment fades and he sees the world for what it truly is.
Dot by dot, Wren drains the sphere’s light and transfers its color and radiance
onto Naifi’s arm. He sews the cords of fire into Naifi’s skin. The fire burns into his arm
and leaves the surface of his skin appearing as red as the fire’s inner flames. Soon, Naifi
begins to welcome the physical pain. He feels the cords of fire scarring his skin and
leaving a bar of red ink etched into his flesh. Although Wren tattoos the new color onto
Naifi’s skin, he leaves a remnant of his former bar as remembrance, as another mark.
52 The cords of red burn into his skin and Naifi feels the new ink move of its own
accord and the bands interlock.
The sphere of the fire’s light in Wren’s palm shrinks in size, while the tattooed
bar around Naifi’s arm grows. Finally, as Wren plunges the last dot of light into Naifi’s
flesh, the sphere winks out of existence and Naifi’s arm pulsates with the remaining
power.
Naifi feels a net of fire and smoke lower over his mind. He tries to shake off a
feeling of obedience, a need to be controlled. For a moment, the need overwhelms him
and he feels part of himself slipping away.
Wren slaps Naifi’s new tattoo. The stinging wakes Naifi from his reverie and he
feels the lines of ink and power running through his veins once again. “Congratulations.
Now you’re a Red.”
“Now what?”
“You do whatever you Reds do. Just obey. Listen to your new inner guide, and do
what should now come natural. Everything else will take care of itself.”
“What does that mean? When can I go see Rhea?”
“You certainly do ask a lot of questions. Let’s just say, your bond to the Order
was strengthened with your Raising. Stop struggling and you’ll find you know what to do.
You are a Red. You are here to keep the rest of the people under control; that’s it. Forget
about everyone and everything else. You’ll find your assignment familiar. The Order
wants you to continue your work with the Browns. Use your experience to keep them in
line and keep them efficient or it will be your rations and hide that will be paying for it.
53 If you do well, then who knows, you might be given more food and someday might even
be a Candidate. It’s as easy as that.”
54 Into the Depths
Naifi had hoped for a transfer. He had hoped, at least, he would be done with the
mines, but Papa and the rest of the Order had a bigger sense of humor than they let on.
Even with the raw Red band tattooed on his arm, they kept him in the mines, in the dark.
Now instead of being the one to crawl and die in the mines, he would be the one cracking
the whip. He would be his people’s jailer.
He feels an unfamiliar heaviness in his throat and he slowly swallows the pain
until it travels to his gut. The overwhelming need for order had long ago faded. A line
from somewhere deep in his memory rises to the surface. I am the jailer, I am the jailed, I
am he who has failed.
Naifi trudges along, following the Browns, keeping his eyes open for the breaks
in the earth and his ears peeled for the sound of poisonous gas leaks. Although his color
had changed, and he’d been assured that his life would improve, everything felt the same.
He did the same task and walked the same path before being Raised. His fingers
unintentionally pick at the ink covering the irritated flesh on his arm.
His hand traces the parallel lines of red and brown on his arm.
Naifi shakes his head and walks up and down the line. Then he spots her. The
little girl, Eva, now in an oversized brown shift and a matching newly inked brown tattoo
on her forearm, walks alone. She follows the line into the depths of the mine and Naifi
follows after her.
She still has the toy tucked into the rope around her waist. Unlike the others, her
head doesn’t face the ground as she walks through the mine. She scans her surroundings
55 and takes note of the passages they are following. She walks as if she isn’t a slave, as if
she isn’t broken. He continues to watch her.
When she takes each step, he notices her mouth move slowly; then at the next turn,
he sees her mouth begin moving again. After another moment, he realizes what she is
doing and smiles. Maybe she won’t die so quickly, Ash.
Naifi tries to push that thought to the side. There is no room for any more people
to look after. I need to focus on finding Rhea and getting out of the Metropolis. That’s it.
Focus on the now. Where would they put Rhea? How can I get to her?
A Red’s walks by him with his hood raised, but his wheezing and muscled form
underneath the robe seem familiar to Naifi. Before he has a chance of placing the
familiarity, he gets lost in trying to keep up with the girl.
Firestones replace the torches, shining their faded warm light, but still Naifi
follows the line and the girl farther inwards.
Ahead of Naifi, Eva walks ever deeper and ever onward. Every now and then, the
steady sing-song of creaks reveal a Red guard or two pushing empty carts farther inwards
or full carts to the surface above for sorting and eventual delivery.
Even in the depths of the mine, they follow their pre-arranged paths without
question.
A hand stained in soot and tinged in red, reaches out from behind Eva and
snatches the stuffed animal from her waistband.
“Oh, what do we have here little one?” Ash, his red shift hanging above the rails,
grips the little girl’s toy above his head.
56 “Does the baby want her toy back?” She doesn’t respond, but her eyes flicker up
towards his captive.
Sensing an opportunity for advancement, the younger Browns flock around the
Red. Ash enjoys the spotlight and stops the constant stream of orphans into the mine.
Without knowing the real reason or caring, a group gathers and starts pointing and staring
at the disruption.
“Is it fair that your new sister gets a toy and you don’t?”
“No!” One of the smaller girls at Ash’s side shouts.
Another larger boy starts to chant. “Get her Ash!”
“No, no! That’s not the way we welcome new family. Papa says you are supposed
to treat everyone in your color like the way you would treat your family. We should
welcome them with open arms. Our pickaxe is their pickaxe. Share and share alike.”
Ash smiles at the girl and brings up his other hand to grab hold of the stuffed
animal from its other side. He stares down at the girl, his smile widening, and pulls. The
sound of the creature’s tearing resounds with the laughter of the crowd. He tosses one of
the halves behind Eva to a companion and continues to hold the other half above his head.
A smooth metal object protrudes from the toy’s innards, hidden in plain sight.
Ash looks towards his audience, laughing for approval, and she moves. Teeth
bared, she climbs his tree-like trunks, hangs around his neck, and presses a jagged rock
against his throat.
She whispers into the Red’s ear, “You killed Bear.”
“Let go of me, you little rat! Reds, to me! This one’s crazy!”
She presses the rock harder against his skin, drawing blood.
57 “Give me back, Bear!”
Ash slowly lowers the rest of the bear to the ground; the metal square falls from
the stuffing and sounds out against the rail.
Naifi steps out from behind a nearby cart and holds his hands up at the struggling
duo. “Eva, put the stone down.”
Her voice cracks, “Why? What’s the point?”
He walks towards her. “Come on, firecracker. You can’t take them all by yourself.
You need help. Nobody wants to be alone, trust me.”
Ash looks for a way of escape and speaks quickly. “Get this thing off of me, Naifi,
or so help me Gods, I’ll kill her.”
Naifi stops in front of them. “Eva, I’m here. I won’t leave; I’m just wearing a
different color. I’m still me; I promise.”
She removes the makeshift blade from Ash’s neck and it drops from her hand. It
breaks against a nearby rock. The girl kicks off of Ash’s back and lands softly on the
ground, palming the square piece of metal and the remains of her toy. She runs to Naifi’s
side.
Ash steps forward at them both, but stops at Naifi’s glare. Ash rubs at the drop of
blood forming on his throat. “Fine. Take her with you. It won’t make a difference.
Word’s come from above. Column four, the night shift, hasn’t reported back yet. So, my
new brother, you have to go find them. Take the little rat with you. Maybe we’ll get
lucky and you’ll both die in a freak accident.” Ash laughs.
“Let’s go, Eva.” Naifi walks down the rail lines and into a smaller tunnel. She
follows close to him, her eyes hovering on Ash’s growing smile and the gathering crowd.
58 The lanterns sway and a three small rocks roll down the sides of the tunnel.
Naifi kicks at one of the nearby rocks and it skips along the metal line running
into the cavern’s depths. “What were you thinking back there? They would have killed
you.”
She watches behind them, her steps never straying from their descent down into
the heart of the mine.
More to himself, he speaks aloud. “Your death would have meant nothing. Sure,
you might have been able to kill Ash. Maybe even one of the kids that he has wrapped
around his finger. But then what? Then they could have hurt you; they could have thrown
you into the hole without a glance. Maybe one of them would be even be Raised. Nothing
would change and everything would keep going the way it has always been.”
She speaks up, without looking at him. “But, I would have done something.”
When Naifi hears the accusatory tone coming from her mouth, he feels a slow
blush of shame rise to his face.
“We die every day and it doesn’t even register with the Order. They just want
their coal, lumber, and everything else. We don’t matter. The Order only cares about
finding more Candidates and keeping the Order comfortable. ”
“Candidates?”
“Yeah, sometimes they find one of us with promise, with some remnant of the
Gods’ powers. Those are put in white and are taken to the City. That’s the goal for every
59 Red. They hope to be the Order’s perfect servant until they are needed. Then, if they are
lucky, the Order trains them. They become another part of the machine.”
Hack away at a weed and it grows back, but if you uproot the weed at its source
you can change the world one parasite at a time.
Naifi traces the new blood-like bar around his arm and says the same idea with
less eloquence. “Kill Ash and another takes his place.”
The little girl is silent. Only their footsteps and the diminishing lanterns keep
them company.
Finally, she looks away from the shadows behind them and catches Naifi’s gaze.
“What do we do then?”
The passage narrows and Naifi is forced to squeeze by a large rock blocking the
tunnel. The hole is small and his hair brushes the top of the boulder. “I don’t know.”
Naifi squeezes through other side of the tunnel and rests against it. For a brief
second, he closes his eyes and feels the weight press in on him. The weight of the world
rests on him until he realizes there is an underlying sound and overall movement in the
stone. He sees the stone in front of him vibrate. His fingers spread over the rock and he
feels a pulse within the cords of matter that make up the rock spread from one line to
another. Each of the tiny invisible cords, tinged gray and brown with the power of pure
earth itself, vibrates at the same steadily increasing pitch from earlier.
Eva’s voice comes from the other side of the tunnel, breaking his concentration.
“So, we just give up?”
Naifi stomps his feet and clouds of dust rises before him. When the cloud of dust
passes in front of a shaft of light from one of the nearby firestones, the cloud seems to be
60 highlighted by pale fire. Like a piece of worn out fabric held up to the light, Naifi sees the
fragments that make up the whole. He sees the cords of shimmering brown weaving
together like pieces of string taking the form of a larger piece of fabric; in this case, the
strings of the cords of shining earth tie together until they materialize into the cloud of
dust in the air.
He looks away, but the cords of energy stay with him. Although he tries to only
focus on rocks in the ground, he sees a sea of brown cords forming together to make up
the passage. Once solid, the earth beneath his feet appears to be an ocean of ribbons of
raw power intricately layered on each other. When he looks even closer, his vision
magnifies and he sees the electric charge jump between the spaces of the brown cords.
He hears her voice, but does not see her. He can only see the universe in the
subatomic, the miniscule, the particular, and the unseen.
“Are you okay?” He wants to respond, but finds he can’t break his concentration
from the specifics of the world around him.
Once he sees the vibrating cascade of shimmering brown cords forming reality
around him, he finds them hard not to ignore. He tries to shake himself out of it and
stomp his feet once again.
Instead, he sees the rippling of the stone around him. The millions of brown cords,
weaving at the smallest of sizes that create the ground around him, start to vibrate harder.
Like a plucked open string instrument, the cords that make up the matter of the universe
respond to Naifi’s stomp and spread from one to another.
61 He closes his eyes and opens them again until the cords slowly fade from his
vision. “I’m okay, just distracted. We have to wait. Eventually we hurt them where it
matters, where it affects them, where it breaks them. Then we wipe them out.”
Her head pokes out of passage and looks up at him. A glimmer of fear mirrors the
flickering of the nearby firestones swaying in her eyes. “They have the Gods on their side.
They can control the elements. We can’t win.”
Naifi gives her his hand and helps her climb over the boulder, while doing his best
not to look directly at the rock. A rock is noting more than layered cords of shimmering
energy and matter. He finds that the less he concentrates on the cords of power that form
the earth, the less vivid they appear. Still, he notices that the burned afterimage of the
cords never completely fades from his view; instead, the cords of the universe fade into a
dull brown constantly vibrating brown. “Then we hurt them so badly they’ll never forget
us. That’s something worth dying for.”
They both step away from the boulder and into the small passage. As if a pebble
was tossed in a pond of liquid earth, the cords of matter within the stone ripples towards
them. A low earthly groan rings throughout the cavern and the pattering of footfalls from
an approaching group soon follows.
“I guess we’ve heard enough boys, haven’t we?” Although he can’t see his face,
Naifi can tell Ash’s voice.
“What do you want, Ash?” Naifi shouts back at him.
The sound of the shifting rocks causes both of them to look back into the crevice
they just climbed through. Ash’s always smiling face greets them. Naifi runs forward, but
62 it is too late. Ash closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and presses his palms against the
stone above the space they crawled through.
The low groan of the earth builds up into a crescendo. Ash struggles with the rock,
veins beginning to protrude from his neck and face. Brown cords, shimmering with a
deep auburn reminiscent of Ash’s eyes, extend from his fingers. The shimmering cords of
power seep out from Ash and once again pluck the cords of matter within the rock. At his
power’s touch, the matrix of brown cords that forms the entire passage wobbles. For a
brief moment, Naifi can understand the stone; he can hear their conversation.
The stone only moves because of another’s power.
Again, Naifi can see into the rock; he sees the rock at the smallest of particles. He
sees the world as the Gods would see it. The cords increase in vibration and he hears the
groans of the stones moving against each other in response to the increasing pitch. Like a
wooden wicker basket under extreme pressure, the cords of brown and power in the stone
around him strain on the verge of breaking. He sees the grid of dark cords of power begin
to collapse inwards. The stones begin to crumble around him.
An aftershock ripples through the rock and stone, rolling the ground out from
under their feet. The ground rushes back towards Naifi and he feels a sharp jolt to his
temple before falling back into the darkness.
A layer of dust settles over them. The firestone glow fades and the air already
begins to taste stale with recycled use. Naifi slowly opens his eyes and strains to capture
63 an image of the room with last fragments of light. His vision wavers, his head throbs, but
still, he struggles to take charge of the situation.
Like Rhea had taught him, he feels around and makes sure his companion is still
breathing before focusing on himself. He stands up and stumbles towards the exit. Yet,
Naifi finds nothing but rocks sealed together. As he struggles, the sharp edge of the
stones draws blood from his fingertips.
To comfort himself in the dark, he speaks aloud to the stones. “What in the gods
did you do, Ash?”
A small voice squeezes through the cracks in the wall of rocks. “What did I do? I
didn’t do anything. I just sensed your deliberate cave-in with my Power. You and your
revolutionary rat decided to try and get back at the Order. Isn’t that right, boys?” The
laughs of his cronies find their way into their newly minted tomb.
Naifi beats his hands against the rocks separating them. “You liar! We were
following your orders!”
Eva stirs, but Naifi motions for her to sit. Ever rebellious, she tries to stand again
before losing her balance and falling back to the floor.
A voice, now barely audible, finds its way to their ears. “No matter what Suresh
says, the Order will sense my Power and I’ll be a prime Candidate for sure. It was just a
matter of time before you did something stupid like this. Anyway, Papa knows you won’t
bend knee. You’re just like Rhea; no one will be surprised at your treachery.”
Finally, realizing the futility of the situation, Naifi stops hitting the wall and
nurses his now even bloodier knuckles. “You bastard, I’ll make sure all of you pay for
this!”
64 “Sure, you will. We’ll be waiting for you, isn’t that right boys?” The sounds of
laughter finds its way towards them; the laughter slowly becomes harder and harder to
discern until finally only the sound of Naifi and Eva’s labored breathing keeps the two of
them company.
Naifi feels around in the dark for her again. “Are you alright, Eva?”
He finds her curled up in a ball, her eyes closed and quivering, the smell of vomit
radiating from her brown shift.
“Eva, wake up! You can’t fall asleep. We have to get out of here” He shakes her
by the shoulders and her eyes open briefly.
“Did you get him?” she asks.
“He got away.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flutter closed and the piece of metal slides from her open grasp.
Naifi feels for it on the ground and picks it up. He can’t quite place its function, but its
rectangular shape and hinged top calls up an old memory from his consciousness.
Without thinking any further about it, he places it in his pocket and then feels
around for one of the nearby firestones. Eventually his bloody fingers find the smooth
earthen ball. As his blood runs over the ball, it starts to radiate a dull now reddish inner
glow. When he holds it in front of him, a fraction of the small room fills with light.
Naifi walks to the wall of the tunnel. “Rhea said I always kept her up with my
incessant rambling. But, she also always enjoyed it. I’ll get us out of here, all of us, Rhea
included, I swear. I won’t let them win again. We will make them pay.”
65 He continues to talk to himself and he feels along the edge of the tunnel. Although
he has a light, he can barely see the stones in front of him. Soon, he reaches a dead end
and is forced to turn back around.
He continues to walk. His breaths become short and ragged as his laps around the
small perimeter of the enclosure increase.
His steps slow, but out of pure habit he continues his spiral within their tomb. The
darkness hovers at the edges of his vision, coalescing and waiting.
The walls press in on him. At first, the pressure is pleasurable in a familiar sort of
way. He loses himself in the embrace, the support holding him up emotionally and
physically. He has to breathe.
He opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember sitting down. So, he stands up. The
world fades away for a brief second and he stops. He rests his hands against the rocks and
steadies himself.
But the walls continue to fold inward. They boy's breaths becomes labored and he
struggles against the persistent pressure. He pushes back against the walls, trying to
make a pocket to survive in.
He shakes his head and presses his hands against the rock wall again, tasting his
own blood. He pushes against it with all of his effort. The wall doesn’t move.
The walls hold him still. He struggles to survive, scrambling up the folded cavity.
There is something he has to remember. Something he can do. He tries to
remember. He puts his hands against his head, remembering, feeling.
66 He sees her in his mind. He remembers something about a dream.
He sees it. The solution is at the edge, deep into the shadows. He pushes himself
into it, drawing it up into himself. Darkness rushes towards him.
Walls of crushing red invade his mind, throbbing with a familiar rhythm.
He feels the earth and hears her sounds. He listens and lets each rock speak its
piece. Then he speaks. Words do not come from his mouth, but the rocks feel the
unspoken threats in his vibrations. It isn’t long before they shift against the each other,
moving away from him, moving away from his anger.
The earth falls away from the exit and floods the outside with rolling stones.
He tears through, ripping at the seams, escaping towards the light.
67 The Space Between
He dreams of fire.
The walls flicker. Patterns of luminescence emanate from the bricks in his
prison’s walls and dance over his sleeping form. The light slows in its movements and
settles on a dull glow. Still, his body shifts as if the morning’s bell has already rung.
Slowly and unconsciously, he uncurls from his fetal position. His head rings with the
familiar rhythm of the day.
But, for Naifi, today isn’t like other days. Today is a new day.
In the dwindling stone light, he begins to be conscious of the cold surface that he
rests upon. Like stone, but at a closer glance, smoother in consistency. The surface of the
table reflects objects on it. At his touch, the surface of the metal emanates a feeling of ice,
a feeling of cold.
Although it appears to be of the same material from the rails and carts of the mine,
the metal feels different to Naifi. In his hands, the metal sings of another use, of another
time, of another people.
People. He remembers being with other people. Like picking up fragments of a
broken glass. He slowly begins to place what he was doing before or what he was trying
to do. He tries to remember what he was looking for. There is something missing. He
can’t place the feeling. He can’t place the absence.
Where was she? Them?
He tries to sit up and darkness overwhelms him again.
68 Darkness. The first memory he had about his new life, in fact, the first thing he
remembers in general was of darkness.
His past was erased with his passage into this world, but he had no time to worry
about it.
Like the other children, at first even he had not questioned his new life. He had
become caught up in it all. He had only become a part of the machine. As the scores of
children before him, the Priests had just begun to use him.
He had followed along. He had found a nook. He had learned his place. He had
continued his work in the mines. He had kept out of sight. He had never strayed from his
line.
Over time, the repetitive nature of his actions had caused him to forget to even
question his former life. The pattern of every day had become his life and he had lost
himself in it. Turns of the sun went by, he had worked without stop, and he had begun to
forget the fragments of his previous life, and the ever-present shadows at his heels.
After only being in the mines for a moon’s cycle, Naifi’s future had almost ended.
A winter chill had blanketed the City after the last rain of the season and had frozen the
walkways and even the buildings with shards of ice.
Because of his small stature, the young Naifi had been sent into one of the smaller
passages to look for coal. He had been given a light, an empty satchel, a stone blessed by
the Order to see with, and a direction to walk.
The firestone had felt warm to the touch, but it had emanated a soft glow
reminiscent of rays of morning light. Holding up the firestone, Naifi had lit up the
69 narrowing and slightly downward slanting passage. He had lowered his foot into the
passage cautiously and had begun his descent into her depths.
The decline had increased as the passage had become narrower. Soon after, the
sharp rocks from the mine had begun to scrape his head. To avoid further pain, he had to
crouch low to continue his journey. Less and less, he had observed the work of the
previous Brown’s scavenging.
But even in the dark, he had sensed the shadow.
As it often does when someone isn’t exactly aware of him, the shadow had
watched Naifi.
At first, his heartbeat had increased. He had thought he was crazy; most of the
orphans do if they encounter it. A person would have had to question their sanity, rather
than consider the implications of the seemingly impossible event.
A cloud of a black-like smoke, so dark it seemed to shimmer purple, had
coalesced at the edges of his eyesight and throbbed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The tendrils of inky shadow had hovered at the edge of his stone’s light. In retreat,
his pace had quickened and his footwork had become sloppy. As his feet continued their
trek, a nearby stone had abruptly caught his foot. It had stopped his foot’s movement, but
not his body’s momentum.
Whirling and twirling, head over heels, he had tumbled down the hole towards the
darkness.
70 Naifi finds himself still in the room, his back pressed against the bricks, but he
can’t stop thinking about his first brush with a cave in, with death. He tries to keep
himself from dwelling on that memory, but the room’s small size makes the memory
difficult to suppress. Naifi takes two steps to the large metallic table at the center of the
room. He presses his face against the cool surface and tries to quell his fears again. He
focuses on the now.
Light lingers from some of the remaining shimmering stones, giving him some
form of pale light to see by. In the half-light, Naifi pulls his head back from the surface of
the table and looks down at it. A faded reflection of Naifi stares back at him and follows
his exact motions. The doppelgänger frowns when Naifi frowns and moves when he
moves, but the reflection does only what he is told, nothing more.
The puppet on the table’s surface wears his face, but has no choice of its own. It is
only a reflection of him, a shadow.
In the beginning, Rhea would always dispel the myths about the shadows among
them. Whenever he asked her about the rumors, the myths of the shadows in the mines,
Rhea would laugh. “A reflection is only a shadow of ourselves.”
He stares at his shadow, his reflection, and looks deep into its familiar eyes.
Over time, even the light from the walls fade. He is left in the dark concentrating
on his inner shadow. He lets go and feels the now. He lets the bare flesh of forehead
press against the cold metallic table. A gaggle of goose bumps spreads out all over his
skin.
71 Since that first cave-in, he had always noticed the shadows more and more. He
had learned to sense them. Despite Rhea’s laughs, he knew that the shadows were more
real than a simple reflection.
So, like the hundreds of times before, he tries to ignore the shadows at the corner
of his prison, just out of sight. He keeps his eyes closed and tries not to pay attention to
the shadows clinging to the edges of the room near the darkest corner. Naifi is wise
enough to understand the need of tackling one problem at a time. He knows he’ll have to
deal with them eventually. He knows they’ll never leave him alone.
Finally, Naifi takes his face off the table once again. Gingerly, he opens his eyes
and turns away from the table. He takes two steps forward until he feels the now dark
stone wall in front of him. He can feel the pebbled texture of the bricks underneath his
fingertips.
He looks at his fingers and notices that the cuts from his attempted escape in the
cave-in had healed.
How long have I been here? Thoughts and fears run through his head, but he tries
to keep calm. Where is Eva? He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the feeling of the
stone underneath his scarred fingertips. Like the rings of a tree, Naifi sees into the cords
of power that run through the stone. As he reads these cords of raw energy and power,
they tell the story of the stone’s past. He sees the matrix of brown power intertwining to
form the stone. Each string of matter within the stone has a slightly different inner glow
reflecting the different day and even the different environment that the layer of rock
originally came from.
72 For the briefest of moments, he can only concentrate on the space between the
cords of power in the wall. He concentrates on these cords of energy and looks towards
the oldest cord within the rock he can find. He could swear that heat he sensed came from
the stone’s first moment of creation. But, in the next moment, the wall goes back to its
former consistency. He presses his forehead against the stone, enjoying the new texture
and the different degree of cold against his face.
There is a way out. I can get to Eva. I know it. A small faded spherical shaped
scar at his temple flattens out against stone’s surface.
Every scar tells a story.
After his first cave-in, he had awakened to the smell of burning flesh. The Order’s
firestone had pressed against his temple and sizzled against his skin. He had tried to move
his hand and remove the stone, but he had found that he couldn’t move. Stuck, he had
been forced to crane his head slightly upwards to see where he was. After moving, the
stone had slipped from his burned temple and the remainder of light had slid down the
crevices and disappeared into the depths of the mine.
The burn had hurt, but that hadn’t been his biggest worry. His hands had been
pinned to his sides and he faced headfirst towards the center of the earth. He had become
stuck, his eyes forced to stare into the abyss.
At first he had thought the dark was playing tricks on him. But, in the dark, the
shadows had all become one. The shadows had formed together in front of his eyes.
73 Like vines to the sun, the tendrils of darkness had begun to longingly spread
towards him. Panic had risen in his throat. He had taken a deep breath, scraping his rib
cage against the rocks along the passage, and had let out a call for help.
No one had heard. No one had come running.
After the last bit of air left his lungs, he had slid deeper into his makeshift tomb.
Panic set in.
He would always remember the feeling of dying. The earth had hugged him tight,
refusing to let him go. He had tried to take in another breath, but the sharp stones had
prevented a full intake of precious air. Spots had appeared before his eyes and he had
begun to feel heavier than before.
The cloud of darkness had approached him and had begun wrapping itself around
him. He had struggled for breath, but had begun to let go.
It wasn’t until the stones had pressed all of the hope out of him, when he was sure
of his fate, did he feel a hand grab his ankle. Strong tree-like fingers dug into his flesh
and She pulled him slowly up the passage scraping his body on almost every rock. A rush
of fresh air had entered his lungs.
The light of her firestone had washed over him, banishing the shadow from the
edges of his mind, and from the darkest corners of the room. He had been on the verge of
passing out when She stood over him, his savior with her mismatched eyes shining inner
warmth.
“Hello, honey. It’s a good thing I found you when I did. You didn’t seem too
much for this world. Just, breathe easy. Now isn’t your time.”
74 Naifi’s frail reed like form had finally collapsed. Without a thought or struggle,
She had thrown Naifi over her shoulder and had walked out of the mine with him. The
earth-toned woman had walked through passages a normal man would have to crawl
through; the tunnels lovingly parted and bended way for her, gently giving way to their
mistress.
But, the shadows lingered at the edge of the light.
The shadows bided their time and waited for him to stumble. But, he learned to
deal with them, to ignore them. Yet, in every small dark space, they waited for him,
watching him, tempting him.
Now, in the darkened cell, he tries to keep his eyes from the shadows at the edge
of his vision.
The thick cloud of inky shadows hangs at the edge of the Order’s prison, slowly
stretching out towards him. He turns his head away from the shadows completely and
back to the wall.
Unconsciously, he finds his fingers tracing the invisible grooves between the
bricks in the wall. He tries to ignore the dark and concentrate on the feeling of the wall.
The wall, much like the nooks in the Factory, which he is forced to call home, has flaws
in its structure hidden from the naked eye. He just has to find them here.
Although he is in the dark, he feels the shadow closing in upon him. Trapped
again, he resorts to his previous plan. He walks along the walls, feeling for a break in the
75 uniformity of their repeating patterns. After his steps bring him to the second corner of
the room, his hand finds a smooth surface, much like the table at the center.
Yet, unlike the table, he feels the smooth metallic surface covered with a thick
layer of paint.
Naifi scrambles against the painted surface of the room’s wall. At first he is
specific with his attack. Yet, the more he struggles the less precise he becomes.
Shadows are within us all; some people just hide them better than others.
Violently, he throws himself against the door, struggling to open it in any way he
sees fit. After a time, his thrashing slows and his hands finds small irregular patches of
missing paint that his attempt at escape revealed.
Patch by patch, Naifi’s hands find the blemishes and peels the rest of the paint
from the door.
The wall lacks any discernable handle or crevice for leverage; it is simply smooth
to the touch. It has the same touch as the table, but it echoes differently to him. He hears
it differently. Naifi opens his eye as wide as he can. He tries to inhale the last bit of light
through his eyes, but the shadows have long ago extinguished any chance of sight. Once
more he is alone, once more he is left to his thoughts, to his memories.
After She saved him, he found himself back in his nook as if nothing had
happened. When he had tried to tell the others of his rescue, he had been beaten for not
bringing back coal and ignored.
76 He had asked his fellow Browns about the woman, but either they didn’t listen or
didn’t know her. The earth-toned woman, without a color to her tunic or a smudge of coal
on her skin, had seemed to only be a dream.
From that point onwards, he felt differently. Before her, he had seen the same
smudged faces and the same coal tinged eyes, feeling nothing. He had lost himself in the
faces of his fellow Browns and their Red guards. But, after she had entered his life, he
started to feel something stirring within. He felt as if there was something on the tip of his
tongue, on the tip of his mind.
Sometimes if he squinted in just the right way, he would catch himself seeing
fragments of half built cities, stretching to the sky, before they shimmered and were
replaced by the Factory’s smoke stacks. He was Awakening.
77 Between
Unlike the others before him, Naifi does not let the prison stop him. He puts his
hands against the door, and listens to the cords. He knows what to do. The warmth of his
hands fogs up the metallic surface of the door. He does not push against the exit. He does
not force the metal. Instead, he simply feels its warmth. He sees the cords of silver matter
within the door, plucks them, and watches their reverberations spread outwards.
A taste, stronger and more earthly than any meat he ever tasted, lingers at the
back of his throat. Briefly, he feels a sensation something shifting within his mind. Like
gears slowly shifting together, he begins to understand. He listens to the steel and it
comes naturally to him. As the rivers of crimson run through his veins, the very life
moving within the metal resonates within him.
The earth speaks to him. Her voice echoes throughout his head. You know what to
do, boy. Just relax. This is your first time Shifting by yourself. Let, yourself do it by
instinct. Let go. Open your eyes.
His breathing slows, his eyes close, but his others open. He sees the world as it
truly is. Vibrating cords of brown and silver fill his vision. Together, the cords of power
intertwine into a cage of billions of lines that form the steel door and the nearby stone
walls his prison.
Instead of speaking to the cords of energy or forcing them to bend to his will, he
concentrates on the spaces between the lines. Like a siren, the space between the cords
calls to him, drawing him in.
He awakens. He folds in on himself and is drawn into the crack. He slips between
the lines and between the worlds.
78 Immediately, he realizes that the world around him is at once real and not real.
Thrust into this familiar otherworld, Naifi immediately feels a sense of home, a sense of
familiarity.
He perches far above the city observing it; he stands, on a cloud, in the sky,
without a concern in this world.
Like the teeth of a giant creature subsumed in rock, the jagged Skaa Mountains
surround the Metropolis from three sides, like a triangle, with the City at its center. A
large stone and steel wall blocks the opening.
The earthen toned woman speaks to him.
“Did you know that thousands of years ago, there was only one mountain and it
was an active volcano?”
Naifi doesn’t answer.
“After an argument over something as trivial as who created what, we got into
such a spat that we forgot ourselves. Many things, which we could have prevented
occurred, floods earthquakes, disease, extinction, but the most beautiful and dangerous
spectacle was the creation of the mountain range.”
“I was so fed up with all of their fighting that I blew up. I crashed against myself,
erupting spouts of her liquid earth, forever shaping the landscape. But, life found a way.
Now, the Skaa Mountains house the mines, shadow the city, leave it in forever gloom,
and coat the streets in piles of soot.”
79 Under him, the city’s streets spiral inwards. Much like the Factory, all of the
roads lead to the city’s inner sanctum, the Order’s fortress.
Until he looks closer, the City shimmers like a near perfect replica. From his
perch high above, he sees the details in the eight Factories lining the outskirts of the City.
His eyes follow the worn cobblestone path, which he walked day after day during his
time in the mines.
The differences between the two worlds are glaringly obvious. In this world, the
white walls of the Order’s city are different. Here, the Order’s center is not spotless and
pure. It emanates a pure form of darkness, a shadow without a reflection. As his eyes get
lost in the darkness, Naifi sees a slight wobble of the city’s center tower. An unseen
breeze lightly bends the thin stalk of the center tower before suddenly snapping and
collapsing in on itself.
Like a stone dropped in a pond, the ripple spreads out across the city. Building by
building, street by street, they all fall down. The darkness consumes them.
He closes his eyes against the screams and bodies he expects to hear and see, but
the world is still silent. He opens his eyes and sees the city standing as it had been before;
the darkness still emanates from its center, sending tendrils into every particle and place
within the City and Metropolis.
“The shadows have always been here. Partly this world was named for them and
partly for what this truly is, a Shadow Realm. A shade of what might be or what has
been.”
80 It was not the other Gods time to meet Naifi, so She introduced herself for the rest
of them. She sat, or what one could describe as sitting, in the wet spongy-like texture of
the cloud next to him.
“You know, clouds don’t feel like this right? In fact, they don’t feel like anything
tangible. This isn’t even my specialty. They just feel cold and wet or warm and wet. I’m
not lecturing, mind you. You created it just by going here, that’s impressive itself. But,
this is our world. You can access the powers of creation here, but I still prefer things
with dirt.” Her hands play with the wisps of cloud, tracing her fingers in its surface, and
leaving the brief indentation of a flower. “It just feels real. But I guess your unconscious
has to begin somewhere. So, welcome back, Naifi.”
“Where is Eva?”
“The girl? Probably still in the Factory on the other side?”
At the news, Naifi feels his very body rushing with adrenaline. “I have to find her,
I made a promise. How do I go Between again?”
The earthen-toned woman with the mismatched eyes and an enigmatic smile
gestures to the open space on the cloud in front of them. “Between? Hm, that’s a nice
way to put it. But, you felt me guiding you, correct? You felt the breaks between worlds,
the cracks between the lines of creation? You didn’t fight with the breaks; you just let
yourself collapse and shine through. Just let yourself fall through the cracks and you’ll
come here, the Between as you call it. For us, it’s different; it’s natural. But if you let
yourself, you can hear the earth. I am everywhere. I will always be with you. Just open
your heart to me.”
81 One eye reflects a rich brown, reminiscent of bark and earth, while the other
reflects a verdant grass-like green. She looks at the cloud of vapor underneath their feet
and her face wrinkles up, reflecting deep grooves in her flesh like the rings on the inside
of a tree. In another instant, she smiles and they smooth away.
“Do you mind if we get back on the ground? Even here, I can’t stand the feeling
of not having something firm and trustworthy underneath. I don’t care what my sister
says. It’s not natural, you know.”
Naifi puts his hand out over the edge of the cloud. He closes his eyes and his jaw
tightens in concentration. A thin ribbon of dirt rises from the ground, twisting and
twirling in the wind; the stream of dirt spins into the air and into his palm forming a
spinning ball of dust.
“The elements are all necessary for the worlds to survive. By ourselves we are
nothing. Together, as four, we are creation. We are Power.”
He looks towards her and the spinning of the sphere slows. It wobbles and
collapses. “How do I do it?”
In less than a blink, they are on top of the nearest of the Skaa Mountains. She
sighs in appreciation and stretches her body to the sky. He notices her bare feet and she
digs her toes into the earth. As before, her age is indeterminate. She then springs from the
ground, moving like one youthful and full of life, yet her mismatched eyes reflect a long
history and a long memory.
“Time and space isn’t the same here. You’ll learn it all over time. It just takes
practice. Your natural affinities will be increased to the point of manipulation of matter at
of the smallest level.”
82 “What?”
“You can use your elemental power to make things. For instance, the spinning
ball from earlier.”
“So, where exactly is this?
“I was wondering when you would get to that. As you said, the Between. You
know you’ve been here, hundreds, if not thousands of times before. Sometimes, you’d
slip here in a daydream, sometimes in a nightmare. You’d see a fragment, a glimmer, a
reflection of a future that could be, and then you’d be back. Someone like you, someone
with the ancient blood and the elements flowing through him or her, has been here by
their first cycle. You exist in both places, yet in none. It is very perplexing, very
complicated, and very enigmatic. One of my Brother’s is an avid researcher and an expert
on the subject. He is fond of saying, “For every action, there is a reaction. For every
light, there is a shadow.”
“What does all of this mean?”
“The short of it is, we need your help.” She looks at him, her eyes burrowing
holes into his skin, like a woodpecker into an old tree.
At her feet, a small plant sprouts and grows into a small tree around her frame.
She relaxes into the slowly intertwining branches and trunks; she reclines backwards as
the leaves grow to cushion her head.
“To do what? By the four gods, what are you? What am I?”
She tells him only part of the story again. “You’re one of the Stolen Children.
You are the Children, or the Grandchildren of the Gods. The stories you tell yourselves to
keep warm at night are true. You aren’t of here. Where do you think you all come from?
83 There are more factories full of children than there are of adults. And all of you keep
dying, being drained of your life, of your power, of your will, but there are always new
recruits. Even when the coalmines run dry, the supplies of children will never stop.
Haven’t you ever wondered where you came from?”
He remembers another smell, another taste. Buildings taller than any tree,
stretched to the sky. Doors, large enough for crowds to walk through, spotted the ground
and lead to underground tunnels.
He remembers the other place. More than before, he remembers parts of the other
life. He remembers the feeling of two people who cared about him above all else. He
remembers the feeling he would get when they would put their arms around him and hold
him close. He remembers their smell. But he can’t remember their faces. He can’t
remember their names.
Abruptly, the memories stop. He grabs his head and tries to force them back out.
Eventually, he walks from her and kicks at a mound of dirt, spraying clods in the air. The
chunks of rock continue their flight into the air, floating by her head, and lifting into the
sky aimlessly.
“Stolen from where?”
“The place at the edge of your memory, at the edge of your time.”
He looks at the woman reclining in the tree. “Even if I could do something, what
would I do? I can’t protect myself, or my friends. I’m no one. I’m nothing.”
“No, Naifi you have to be the answer. Unlike the Order, you aren’t a child of one
god or of two. You are the product of generations of breeding. You have all of the ancient
84 blood running through you. Trust me, you are the solution. We have tried before and
failed. You have to be our light against the Shadow.”
“Lady, I’ve tried to use the elements. That’s the only way to survive in the
Factories. I am good with metal, with earth. I can find coal when no one else can. I know
that, I can hear it, but I’m no Initiate of the Order.”
She steps out of the tree chair. It withers and dies without her constant presence
within it. “My Brother, the one I was quoting earlier, has another favorite saying. I think
it goes. ‘It only takes only snowflake, to cause an avalanche.’ Trust me, Naifi. With some
training, you’ll be able to hear the elements and ask them to meld to your will in both
worlds.”
“What happened to me, to us? Why? What’s the point?”
The darkness from the center of the City spreads out during their conversation. It
infects the Metropolis and stains the buildings with its shadow. Slowly, it spreads to the
landscape, warping it, and twisting it into a bastardized form of itself. The buildings fill
with shadows and spread out from the confines of even Metropolis. The mountainside
looks stained with soot and blood. She looks away from it, her face losing color, and her
green eye flashing with an inner fire.
“Look at the landscape. The Order is bleeding the life out of your people as well
as mine. We are all dying. We must stop them. All that matters is we share the same goal;
we want to destroy the Order. Now, you have to go. We’ll talk more later.”
“How do I even get back here? When?”
“Just close your eyes and we aren’t that far off. You’re Awake now. You’ll be
able to do it more than you’d like now. Trust me. We’ll talk about this more next time.
85 Now, we need to get you back fast. Don’t panic. We’ll go over it this time, step by step.
We’ll do it my way. First look at your feet. Feel the earth below you, feel the rocks
surrounding you, and feel the life inside of you. You are the earth, as much as you are
water, fire, or air. Feel the earth; listen to it. You know how to do this or you wouldn’t be
here now. Feed on the earth; let it become you. Find what is out of sight. Open the door.
Step through.”
Another world opens before his eyes. The cords become visible again. The strings
form everything. Instead of the open space ahead of him, he sees cords of brown
emanating from the ground and reaching all over the Shadow Realm. He focuses and the
brown cords group together forming a nest of brown lines with a slight opening and lack
at its center. Instinctively, he raises his hand above his head and the space between the
cords becomes a tear in the nest of lines. He steps through to the other side, to find her, to
find them.
86