Persephone spent the
weekend re-evaluating every last detail about her life. Friday, after
that momentous trigger event, which she alone knew about, but for the
one who had sent her the video - she exaggerated the symptoms of her
illness; Gerald her boyfriend hastily assuring her, he had meetings
to attend all weekend, that he wouldn't be around. She smoked illicit
cannabis all weekend, alone in her apartment, to try to cut to the
core of how to deal with her predicament, or to forget.
Saturday morning she
received another email, with another video attachment. She saved it
but didn't open it. In the evening she received another, which she
did not save, which was gone when she opened her email again – then
to watch, as it appeared on her screen. Someone was following her,
observing her, manipulating the Net. It was another video, to make
three. She still hadn't looked at the second video, for the horror of
the first. Sunday morning there was a fourth email, and she thought
she would lose her mind.
Sunday night she
watched all four videos: cases she had worked on, with a similar
result. She was sleeping with a liar, and working for murderers. It
didn't matter the dead were sicklies, that they might be diseased,
zombies. They had been killed, ruthlessly, without mercy, and she had
led the killers to them. She wanted to die. She wanted to be raised
from the dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hello”, the man
said, as he sat next to Persephone at the bar.
She was spending a lot
of time in bars. She was not performing well at work. Gerald was
suspicious. She endured, but it was horrible. Even the plants in her
office seemed to sag, as if they knew. She didn't want to die, but
she wanted out, yet there was no 'out'; there was no life anymore
beyond the city, the world was a wasteland, a ruined, toxic menagerie
of hidden poisons, lurking disease, and crazed survivors. Here in the
city she had been somebody, a black kid raised by her grandmother in
the fringe, who had ascended the hierarchy to a comfortable level,
inside the Institution. She had felt as free as she thought anybody
could be in this world. Now she felt like she was in a prison, gilded
hell, a coffin. In her rawest moments, she thought acidly, if she had
the clearance to climb to the top of any of the Institutional
buildings, she might have jumped. At the same time she wanted to burn
the Institution to the ground, tear it down piece by piece, make a
rubble of it to spit on. Every time she thought about it though, she
heard her grandmother, talking about the beauty of her garden, about
the beauty of life. There had to be a way out.
“You look like you
had a tough day,” the man said, smiling, friendly. Persephone said
nothing, offering nothing.
He added, “The sky is
sometimes white, sometimes gray and always blue, and always many
colored,” casually, as if anyone talked like that, as he sipped his
beer and looked at Persephone's reflection in the bar back. He was
dressed like the mid-level techie, plain, conservative, but he acted
more like management, as if his clearance were greater than hers.
Which was strange, because he was darker-skinned, like her. He
reminded her of her Grandmother. She observed this, and then cast it
aside as a symptom of her increasing madness. But she couldn't. For a
brief moment, she felt suddenly, inexplicably, at ease, as if she had
never been more herself. Before the fears and anxieties rushed back
in and the feeling dissipated, like a dream.
“The sky was darker
today, and every day the last week, than it ever has been,” she
said to her drink, and then she turned to him and held his gaze.
“Perhaps if you
danced the sky might open for you,” he said, holding her gaze.
“I don't dance for
strangers.”
“And I am not the
sky.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some hours later, in a
booth, laughing for the first time in more than a week, she said to
him, teasing, “nice tie, by the way.”
“It pleases Party
leadership.”
“What leadership,”
she scowled, a little drunk.
“The one that isn't
exiled, yet.”
She looked at him,
sober, the way he said that.
“Exile sounds like
death,” she said.
“Shall we talk about
rebirth then?”
It was like a warm
breeze blew through her. She felt light, almost weightless. Like the
cells of her body were suddenly filled with effervescent light.
“Rebirth?” she
said.
“An offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
“A new life.”
“Don't lie to me.”
She thought she should be afraid of him, but she wasn't.
He held out a chocolate
chip cookie in each hand. Chocolate was harder to find than gold.
“The cookie on the right has mushrooms in it. The cookie on the
left has cannabis. Your boyfriend Gerald is going to come through
that door, in about twenty minutes,” gesturing to the front door.
There were only two other patrons, in separate places at the bar,
contemplating their drinks. “Of course you do not have to eat
either cookie. Whatever way, you can come with me, or not. If you
come with me you can never go back to this life. If you stay, you
might not ever see me again.”
Persephone looked at
him for awhile without saying anything. She reached out, taking both
cookies, wrapping them in a cloth she pulled from a pocket of her
coat, and put the package in that pocket, as she rose to put the
jacket on.
“Where are we going?”
she said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a studio loft, safe
house above a garage in the Seward neighborhood, they made love on a
rocket stove bed, and then in the sauna, and then again in the solar
shower.
“We are still in the
city,” she observed.
“We leave the city
tonight, in the early morning before the sun. There are more cookies
if you want them.”
“I'll stay sober,
thanks.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do we really have to
be buckled in?” It was darker than a womb.
“Do you want to hit
the wall of this box truck if we have to stop suddenly?”
“No,” she said,
stressed but not harsh. “I'm just restless. I don't like enclosed
spaces, particularly ones so dark that I can't see my hand in front
of my face...and the outside, outside the city is a toxic, diseased
wasteland. I've never left the city.”
“There are toxic,
diseased places, and there are others that are vigorous, abundant and
beautiful, as you will see.” Persephone wanted to believe him. Then
she couldn't.
“I tracked those
people they killed,” she said, nothing left to lose, here in the
dark.
“I know. I came to
kill you.”
“I don't want to
die.”
“It is better if you
are not afraid to.”
“Are you going to
kill me.” She shuddered in the total darkness, the void.
“I already did.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Which is why you
will live.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Persephone awoke in a
plush bed, the sheets somewhat damp. Her dreams were as cloudy as the
memory of how she came here. She remembered kissing a luminous being,
in total darkness; everything after, a blur.
The room was plaster,
tan walls like dry grass, embedded tile mandalas; live plants
abundant and streaming sunlight. She could hear birds calling through
the open window, the leisure of leaves in a light wind. She thought
she had never been in a more comforting bedroom. Through the second
story window, she saw extensive gardens, abundant flowers, a
greenhouse, a pond and a creek, distant woods, a valley, a ridge,
cattle grazing in lush grass. Water seemed to flow from under the
house, and she wondered for a brief moment if she were on a boat. But
the house was above ground, it felt firm, immovable, almost eternal,
like it was always here and always would be. Likewise, she felt the
insecurity of her place in it, the Institutional killer in paradise.
Wherever she was. She couldn't tell where she was, in relation to the
city, in what direction; when she closed her eyes she felt like it
was in the north/west. She opened her eyes suddenly, when the large,
handcrafted door opened; A red-headed woman in a light gown entering,
with a plate of food and carafe of water. Eggs fried, hashbrowns,
Kale and peppers, sliced mushrooms, cranberry spread on toast, a
braised, blackened cut of fish. An apple. Apples were above her pay
grade. She had eaten one she had stolen as a child.
“We thought you might
be hungry,” the woman said, with a bright smile like the room. “My
name is Deme.
Persephone was startled
by the food. Rarely had she seen such in the city. Food outside the
city was presumed to be practically non-existent. Outside the city
was supposed to be a toxic wasteland. The discontinuity of the
gardens and greenhouses, the fresh air, the clear waters, rushed in,
and she swooned, blood rushing to her head.
Deme poured some of the
water from the carafe, onto a clean cloth napkin. “May I sit next
to you?” she asked. Persephone nodded. Deme sat down and rubbed
Persephone's forehead. “Your hair is wet. Bad dreams last night?”
“I don't remember,”
Persephone's gold curls, darkened, clinging to her scalp, laying
flat. Deme put her firm fingers into Persephone's hair and fluffed it
out, airing it out. “I will draw a bath for you. Did you sleep
well, otherwise?”
“Yes,” Persephone
said, absently. “Where am I.”
“You are in the
longhouse of the Sun Waterstead, a farm. About 200 miles from the
city.”
“200
miles!”Persephone gaped, stunned. Deme looked at her, inquiringly,
without responding. “I've never been outside the city. It's not at
all like I was told it was. We were always told it was a toxic...”
She paused, as she let this sink in. “Where is the man who brought
me here, David.”
“I am House Mother,”
Deme said. “This farm is run almost entirely by women, many of whom
are disabled. As far as the Institution is concerned, we are a home
for disabled women. 'David' is working on one of the fish tanks, I
believe.”
“Who is he?”
Deme looked Persephone
in the eyes. “He is the Rain King.”
“The Rain King?”
“Of the
Waterbearers.”
“The Rain King of the
Waterbearers?”
“He was raised by
bears,” Deme said, as she laughed, mirth in her auburn eyes.
Persephone didn't ask
more, but for the bath and a change of clothes. She hadn't been able
to bring any of her things with her, but what she wore and had with
her, in the bar, which clothes were hardly appropriate for a farm.
That and the androgynous, industrial pants and shirt she had changed
into, in the safehouse in Seward. She wore a thin sleeping gown,
naked underneath, the gown clinging to her uncomfortably. Deme helped
her out of bed and walked with her down a balcony hallway, a plush
greenhouse garden on the floor below them, past a hand wrought,
wood-limb railing. They walked over hand-woven, hemp rugs, over
hardwood flooring, to a central, round, open room, and washrooms
beyond that, in the back of the second floor.
Deme plugged the drain
of a large, hand-tiled bath, and opened the faucet. Steaming water
rushed out, heated by the sun. The wash room was considerably cooler
than the bedroom, which was welcome. She climbed into the tub. Deme
brought her a change of clothes: a light shirt and drawstring hemp
pants, sandals. She left Persephone alone. Persephone lingered a long
time in the waters, until they were cool.
Stepping out of the
tub, after it had drained, she lingered a long time in her towel,
observing the washroom. It was illuminated by two electric lights, a
few candles, and light refracted from mirrors in the greenhouse, over
an opening between the wall and the ceiling. The ceiling sloped down,
away from the wall. The entire room, floor to ceiling, was
elaborately tiled, light reflecting off a raised pool in the middle
of the room, reflecting off the walls like opalescence. There was
something underwater-like about it, like being able to breath under
water in a dream.
She dressed, and
lingered a long time again, in the round, open room outside the
washroom, round and open to the glass of the south wall, fringed by
the hand-wrought railing, and tall potted trees. Most of the floor
here was an elaborate, tiled mandala. The walls were colored glass
and tile murals, as if by the hand of many artists, some narrative
immortalized over time. The whole was such a stark contrast to the
severe lines and controlled monotony of Institutional architecture,
or the dingy make-shift of the city fringe, she had nothing like a
reference. It seemed to open up channels in her mind she hadn't known
existed, or were even possible.
She walked down a
hand-carved spiral stair, to similar tile work on the main floor,
more trees in big pots, a wall on her right open to the kitchen,
where several women worked. They looked up at her, and then down
again at whatever they were doing, without acknowledging her. Deme
walked out of the kitchen, with a warm smile, her fringed and
embroidered apron covered with vegetable stains. “How was the
bath?”
“Glorious. But I
think I spent about as much time in the water as I did, just looking
at the washroom, and then that open circle room above us. This house
is amazing,” she said, with genuine enthusiasm.
“It is one of a kind.
And not so different from many like it.”
“There are more
places like this?”
“Hundreds,” Deme
said, to Persephone's astonishment. “Though this is perhaps the
oldest, that we know of, ten generations old.
“Feel free to look
around. I'd give you a tour, but we are a little behind schedule in
food preservation, and we need all the hands available. When you've
satisfied your curiosity about the farm, come to the kitchen and help
out. There will be someone working there, all day into the night.”
“Where is...David?”
Deme smiled. “Look
for him in the first greenhouse you come to, on the way to the creek.
If he's not there, they will tell you where he is.” She walked back
to the kitchen.
Persephone walked
toward the glass, the sun high so that it could not be seen, shining
only on a thin band of floor near the glass. There were citrus and
avocado trees, kiwi vines, plants she had read about in books but
never seen nor tasted or smelled, all close to the glass. There were
scattered tables, as elaborately crafted as anything she had seen
elsewhere in the house. A pool of water with fish, floating and
hanging plants; and then doors to the outside, big wooden doors, a
foyer, and all the doors open, a breeze flowing in.
Out into the courtyard,
gardens like a fractal pattern, looping out this way and that, a kind
of perfect symmetry. There were flowers and pollinators in abundance.
Women scattered, tending to the plants, who like the others in the
kitchen, looked at her without acknowledging her. Some appeared to
limp, some were observably misshapen; all seemed capable, dressed in
hand crafted clothing as differentiated and elaborate as any of the
architecture she had seen. Their coolness, compared to the warmness
of Deme, was unnerving, and she didn't linger long, heading for the
greenhouse, past grazing chickens, rambling ducks.
He wasn't in the green
house. The women there told Persephone to look to the sacred pool -
follow the creek. Persephone wanted to linger, to learn about the
fish tanks, but the women's treatment of her was rote, cold like the
techies in the city and their verbal commands to their computers. The
women didn't seem like cold people, just cold to her. She thought
they knew more about her than she wanted them to know. It was a harsh
feeling, in the midst of such extraordinary beauty. She thanked them
graciously, and walked to the creek.
The creek was four feet
wide, maybe a foot deep, winding through a wildflower meadow on it's
way to a river cutting through the valley, bluffs on either side a
half mile. About halfway down the meadow, there was a grove of trees,
giving the appearance of a circle. The meadow was a cacophony of bird
sounds, and insects buzzing. A light, warm breeze flowed down from
the ridge above, little winds cutting through the wildflowers, making
them sway gently, not even disturbing the pollinators, drunken
pollinators covered with pollen. As she neared the grove, her heart
fluttered like a bird, her feathers standing on end. Goosebumps
rising on her cocoa skin. She felt the presence of her grandmother.
She paused, before she entered the grove.
He was seated on a
stone patio circle, in the east of a stone ring around the pond,
which pond seemed to have no bottom. The air here seemed ten degrees
cooler, and she shivered. He stood when he saw her, walking to her.
“You look well,” he
said.
“Thank you. I feel
good. The farm is amazing.” She was watching the pond, the
bottomlessness of it.
“It is amazing. A
great gift. How were you treated?”
Persephone looked at
him, not sure what she could say to him. This...”Rain King”.
“Deme was very kind.
I had the best breakfast I've ever had, and a nice long bath in the
most gorgeous bathroom I've ever seen.” She hesitated. “Everyone
else was cold to me. What do they know?”
“They know I brought
you from the city. They know what you did for the Institutionalists.”
Persephone tensed, crossing her arms over her bosom, dropping her
head.
“So they think I'm a
killer?” Water gathered in her eyes, the intensity of her
circumstances weighing heavily; she wished for a moment she had
stayed in the city, never saw the farm. She held close to her fear,
then lost control. “So they wonder why their “King” would bring
home an Institutionalist killer, and fuck her!” she sneered. She
wanted to run, anywhere away.
He reached out his
hand. She looked at him, breathing hard, wondering, then took his
hand, and let him lead her to a wooden bench. They sat down facing
the pool.
“They are confused.
They wonder how their “king” could choose an Institutionalist.”
Choose? Persephone went
quiet, looking at him. He was dressed not very differently than she
was, a simple shirt, drawstring hemp pants; though he wore some
ornament, which seemed more like tokens, like the “amulets” her
grandmother used to make, from her garden. He seemed perfectly at
ease, compared to the sea of emotions crashing against the shores of
her self. The waters of the pool rippled, swirled, a whirlwind
dropping down into the circle of trees. She felt like she could see
it, imagining it pulling her fear and confusion away like a ghost.
“You chose me? I
don't understand.”
“I first saw you when
you were nine, the first day I ever saw the city, only a year after I
was brought from the north woods to this farm. I was 15. Your dark
skin so much like mine; your copper curls, your golden eyes. Who
couldn't notice you? You were in the market, with your grandmother,
who was an extraordinary sight too. You were very observant. You
looked right at me, holding my gaze, and then you looked away and
forgot me. I've been following you ever since.”
This was too much. The
whole of the last two weeks swept into her consciousness and
overwhelmed her. She choked, trying to stay above water.
He put his hand on her
shoulder, and a kind of light seemed to fill her body, bright light
like air filling up the flesh, releasing tension. She breathed more
evenly, deeper. Tears streaming down her face.
“Why didn't you take
me from the city before I...” she cried harder, like a stream from
her eyes to the bottomless pool.
He took his hand away.
“Would you have come? You became like a true believer. Like most
people in the city, you believed the Institutional story because it
seemed the most secure, based on circumstances as you understood
them. I nearly gave up on you. For awhile,” he said, cold as a
glacier, “I thought I had seen you as a kid in that market with
your grandmother, so I would know I would have to kill you.”
She tensed, turned and
looked at him, wary as a cat. He said, “I think now you are the
Rain Queen, and you will help me take back the city.”
Her feet seemed to
suddenly cling to the earth like roots. Her back went straight like a
tree trunk, her arms like limbs, her head the crown. It was like the
whole of her life had led her to this moment.
“You want to take
back the city from the Institutionalists?”
“I am the seventh
Rain King. The first Rain King built this farm, the house, and many
more like it in the region. The third Rain King used these farms as a
base, to take control of the city. The fruit and nut orchards, and
gardens you knew there, only available to Institutional elite, were
first planted by him. He reigned there for 40 years. When he died,
the city was lost to reconstituted, Institutional control. Every Rain
King since has lived in exile.
I am the last Rain
King. It is now the time of the Waterbearers; they will soon need no
King. But it is my task, while I am here, to take back the city. To
restore what the third Rain King started.”
“What, another
eternal tyranny?”
“To restore the Bill
of Rights, of the old American Constitution, Habeas Corpus, the rule
of law. To facilitate a care and concern for the health of the earth.
To heal the waters.”
“And what about the
Institutionalists? What are you going to do to them?”
He paused. “The same
thing I did, that caused the Waterbearers to declare me king. Capture
and rehabilitate them, like your General Hustlebury.”
“What!” She was
credulous. “General Hustlebury was like everybody's grandpa. They
said he was captured by the northern tribes, tortured and eaten
alive!”
“He was a murderer
and a rapist. And he is very much alive. A very gentle soul. Samuel:
he chops wood, carries water,” laughing.
Persephone laughed at
him, not believing him. “So were you really raised by bears? That
is what Deme said.”
He laughed, sadly.
“That is Deme, reminding me I am human.” He smiled as if pained.
“My entire tribe was murdered. I alone survived. I was 5. That
first night, I climbed into a cave, and slept with a momma bear,
between her two cubs. That one night. I lived alone in the forest,
that next night until I was 14.”
“Your tribe was
killed, like the tribes I tracked?” Persephone asked, quivering.
“All of them, my
mother, father, brother, sisters, friends; everyone but me.” He
looked away at the pool and the abyss.
Persephone quaked. She
pondered him. He was a man like any other, but otherworldly some how.
“So how can I help you take back the city?”
“You were their most
gifted techie, the whole of your time at the Institution.”
“They treated me like
my work wasn't worth a promotion!”
“That is because they
were never sure about you. It was your grandmother's influence. They
suspected if you knew what was really going on, they would have to
kill you.”
It all made sense,
somehow. She felt relieved, even if she didn't fully understand. “So
what is going on?”
“The
Institutionalist's are feeling their weakness, and they are lashing
out. The northern tribes are very effective at disabling northern
mining operations. The Insitutionalists, when they find a tribe, they
wipe them out. They track them and then they kill them. The
woodlanders are hard to find, though,” and he gave her a sly, if
sad smile.
“And now you want me
to turn my tracking skills against my former employers?”
“I want you to use
your skills to pursue the path you believe true to yourself, in
relation to the world as you understand it. Like all waterbearers are
taught from birth.”
“And what is a
'Waterbearer'?”
“It is the Aeon of
Aquarius, the Time of the Waterbearers. All living things are
waterbearers. To be a human Waterbearer is to be conscious of the
water that flows through all things. According to the precession of
the equinox, the last 2200 years, has been the Aeon of Pisces, the
Fish. The fish ignorant of the polluted waters it swam in, but not
immune. The Institutionalists are remnants of the Aeon of fish.”
Persephone smiled at
the idea, looking at the pool. “Speaking of fish and waterbearers,
is this pool for swimming?”
He smiled. “It is a
pool of water. Rather chilly. The river is better for swimming.”
“So how am I going to
use my skills against the Institutionalists, on a farm,” she asked,
changing the subject but getting to the point.
“What makes you
assume our technology is less than that of the Institutionalists?”
Persephone looked at
him, and she thought she understood him. Pondering, “Isn't a “Rain
Queen” in need of a consecration?” She took off her clothes and
dived in. He followed; they made shivering love in the waters of a
seemingly bottomless pool.
The baby of another man
stirring inside her.
