Oculum Read online

  “What’s cars, trucks and buses?” Cranker asks.

  “Oh, those are the wheeled carts, or the huge machines and the giant wagons with hundreds of seats. They carried many people at once in them. So it’s difficult to get up close to the dome, and those who do get close only report seeing strange lights and phantoms through the glass.”

  “More Olden Begones magic?” I ask.

  “Perhaps, Mann. Magic, or machines.”

  “What machines?” I ask again. This story has my head whirling and a thousand questions I want to ask, but Jonatan Briar laughs and stands up.

  “That’s all I can tell you. I do know that people say the Oculum City Dome is opening more regularly in recent years, so whatever mechanical devices are there are still in good working order.”

  “Do you think it’s true? Are there children still alive in there?” I have to know what he thinks. He puts a huge hand on my shoulder.

  “I only know the old stories as I was taught them, Mann. Now you know one of them, too. Tell everyone, tell the Littluns, tell the people you meet, keep it alive. It may mean something to someone one day. As for babies being woken and growing up into healthy children countless years later?” He considers and shakes his head. “I don’t see how.”

  Then Jonatan Briar says goodnight and goes to sleep next to his horse. When I wake in the cold dawn the next morning, he’s gone.

  And all the Littluns are burning up and sick and coughing.

  The Dying Fever is upon us.

  Miranda1

  William2 is with me in the classroom. We are helping the Simons and Isas with their numbers, and I am doing a terrible job of it. I am too distracted to make sense of what the children are asking me. A Sentry stands at the door, watching me. William2 sits at my side, pleasant, cheerful with the children who seek our help, but I simply cannot do this.

  “William, I’m not feeling well, I must get some air,” I say quietly. It’s true enough. I have a terrible pain behind my eyes and in my chest. He has been very kind to me all morning, but he’s uneasy. The children are calling him William1, but it’s plain they are confused. They keep glancing at his armband with “W1” on it and looking at his face. Up until today, he has always been “William2” among us. They are nine-year-olds, not too young to notice this change.

  “Yes, of course Miranda1.” He hesitates. “Miranda,” he corrects himself. If I am to be familiar and call him simply William, he should do the same with me. We are both playing a game.

  “Shall I tell Teacher?” he asks. He is genuinely concerned, a kind boy, and there is also something else in his warm eyes — worry, fear.

  I shake my head. “No, that’s not necessary. Perhaps I will sit alone, quietly? That’s all I need.”

  “Of course. I can answer all the children’s questions,” he says. And then he rolls up his sleeves and begins to help the children gathered all around us.

  I am sensing something else about the children, how-ever. A few of them look at me curiously, sideways, with a question in their eyes. I don’t know if they’re curious about the arrival of a new William1 … or if it is something else.

  I walk to the window and look toward the Seed Park, which is glorious now that our world is open. The apple trees sway gently, and the scent of their blossoms is almost overwhelming. Near the distant walnut tree I see Sentries — a dozen of them or more — at attention or milling around beneath it.

  The door is well-guarded. There will be no getting near it now.

  Usually I enjoy a day like this, with the open sky above and fruit trees in bloom.

  But today everything has changed.

  A young girl stands beside me. “Miranda1?” she asks quietly.

  “Yes, Isa19?” I say, composing myself. Isa19 gives me a small, careful drawing. I gasp when I look at it: it is a very good likeness of my William1, the real one. It is far advanced for a nine-year-old, unless this child has an astonishing gift for art. I stare at her, shocked. What can it mean?

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Sorry?” I ask, confused.

  “Yes, sorry about William …” Here she looks around and drops her voice, “I’m sorry about William1, your William.”

  “What do you mean?” I must look terrifying, because the child trembles but stands firm. She has some cour-age in her, this girl.

  “I just mean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that the first William1 … has died.” She breathes this so low that I barely hear her. Then she turns and runs back to her seat.

  Died? Died?

  I look over at the Sentry, and I have to leave the room. Now. I brush past William2 and whisper in his ear that I must leave, then I grab my satchel and run past the Sentry, which wheels quickly behind me.

  “Where is Miranda1 going?” it asks in its mechanical way. It reaches out and holds me in a steel grip. I pull my arm free.

  “I must talk to Regulus,” I say. “Now let me go.” The Sentry allows me to leave the Teaching Hall but stays close behind me. I walk as quickly as I can across the common toward the Senate. I have no idea what I am going to say to Regulus when I get there.

  I reach the square in front of the Senate, take a few steps, and stop. There is a new picture posted upon the signboard, where Regulus posts notices about the day; fruits available, market days, waking days, games, celebrations. I walk slowly forward, because there is a poster with a drawing of a face upon it.

  It is William1’s face. My William, the true William1. The child in Teaching Hall merely copied it, which is why her drawing was so skilled.

  I stand before the signpost and read the headline below William1’s image: “Beloved William1, 13 years of age, dead of a fall, last night.”

  Below the headline is a short paragraph: “William1, beloved by all, fell from the great black walnut tree in a forbidden evening meeting with Miranda1. We shall celebrate William1’s life tomorrow night, at seven o’clock, in the square. All of Oculum must attend.”

  I swallow, but my throat is tight. I reach up to remove the poster, but the Sentry stops me.

  “You killed William1,” it says in a dull voice.

  I turn and say fiercely, “You do not speak to me like that. I shall tell Toolman there is something wrong with your slow, mechanical brain if you breathe another word to me about William1.” I say this with such anger that the Sentry wheels slightly backward.

  William1’s face on the signpost has awoken a fire in me.

  Regulus is a murderer. He killed Mother of William1 this morning.

  He is a liar, since he is telling us that William1 died, the first death any of us has experienced, and that somehow I was involved. He is also toying with me, since we both know that William1 is not dead.

  But more than that, the fire tells me something else: I must read the truth on the Map of Oculum, and I must find William1. I look up at the sky, the Arm stretched full-length toward the open air. The sun above shines down at my feet, upon the common, across the drawing of William1’s face.

  Clouds pass above Oculum.

  And very slowly, an idea comes to me.

  I cannot follow William1 through the door now that it is guarded so carefully, but there is another way out of Oculum.

  And I shall take it tomorrow night.

  William1

  The door opens only one way: outward.

  I know this now.

  I walked through the door and stared at the spot where it just closed behind me. But from Outside, there was no trace of it. The door was only visible from inside Oculum.

  I ran to the wall, pressed my face against the glass, and looked into Oculum. Miranda1 stood where I just left her, but she was vague, shadowy. I banged upon the door and called her name. I could see her, but she didn’t look like Miranda1 anymore. Instead, I saw a strange, wriggling figure rise and leap, distorted through the
opaque wall. The Sentries were filmy, shifting shapes that moved like terrifying shadows beside her.

  If I did not know what they were, I would not know that a girl stood there with Sentries. I would see only wavering, shimmering figures.

  I would only see Fandoms.

  The trees nearby were invisible. From Outside there was no trace of them. I fell to sit, my back against the door, or where the door once was. I peeked above me, but all around me was darkness. There were stars though, filling the sky, too many stars.

  I trembled and shook.

  I was alone. And shut out of the only world I had ever known.

  I touched, again and again, the book in my cloak pocket. The book from my Mother: For the Children of Oculum. I read it over and over, and I had learned the truth about Oculum; it is a closed world and we were not meant to stay inside it forever! We were meant to leave, when we were ready. Without the book and the poem inside it, I would not have had the courage to go through the door, but sitting in the Outside that first night, it was little comfort.

  I spent the first dark night with my back against the door. Strange, fearsome creatures with sharp noses and wicked teeth sniffed and hissed at me, and I threw whatever I could find to send them scattering. The next morning, though, came a transformation. The sun ascended into the sky, a shocking sight. Then the world grew rosy, and I could see, for the first time, where I was.

  A new world.

  Above me the great wall rose above my head, curving away, disappearing beyond my vision. The wall dug into the earth at my feet and ran to the left and right of me as far as I could see. The open space above me held the sun and the clouds in a bright blue sky. The sky went on and on, forever. It took a long time to calm myself and to look up without fear at the wide-open world.

  I stood in a wasteland of rubble, wheeled metallic shapes, black boxes of all sizes, and more strange items that made no sense. I opened some of the boxes and found markings inside, letters, numbers, words: Insert, Delete, Enter. And other partial words, PrtSc or PgUp.

  There were enormous machines in the wasteland as well, abandoned and broken. None was as big as the Oculum Arm, but they reminded me of Sentries, Mothers, or Nursies, since they had wheels and were made of metal. Many of the machines had broken windows and seats inside. I opened the door of one and sat in the seat behind a wheel. There was another seat to my right, and two more behind me, and strange instruments before me, more numbers and words I could not decipher: radio, volume, speed, fuel. I could read the words, but they meant nothing to me.

  I supposed this was a kind of cart. These metal carts made the bulk of a solid wall all around. It was only where I stood, near the door, that the pile was lower, and I could see the bare, muddy earth.

  For a while that first day, I banged upon the door with everything at hand, rocks, metal poles, trying to find reentry. But no matter how I tried, I could not get back into Oculum.

  When night came again, I slept in one of the wheeled carts. The fearsome creatures returned when the sun fell, but again I threw rocks and the black boxes, whatever I could find, to make them run off. The foul things watched me from the wasteland in frightening numbers.

  What a fool I was to leave Oculum so unprepared.

  I needed fire, I needed shelter, I needed more food and water than the small amount I had with me. A hand-ful of dried fruit, a small jug of water, and three peaches would not last long.

  I could not stay in this place.

  With the returning sun, I knew I had to leave. But if I were ever to return, I would need a trace of the door so that I could find it again. I picked up muck and dirt and drew an outline of the door where I knew it to be. When I had finished, I had made a mud copy of the real door that lay beneath. But a mud outline would only wash away with the next rain, I reasoned. I needed something more permanent.

  So I took boxes from the piles all around me, and I stacked them up in a great, sturdy wall around the mud outline of the door. The odd, flat boxes with the strange words inside made good building blocks, so I used many of them, and rocks and more from the wasteland to build an outline of the door I knew to be there. I made the false door as strong as I could, tossing rocks at it to see if it would collapse.

  When I had finished building my outline of the door, it looked strangely formidable, tall and thick and well above my head.

  Then I took apart hundreds of the strange letters from the black boxes, breaking them out with a rock, and I wrote a message in the soil before the door in letters as long as my foot: WILLIAM1 WAS HERE.

  I pressed my feet and hands deep into the mud, leaving my prints beside my name. And then, in a moment of pure vanity, I laid my muddied hands upon the pearled wall of my lost world. I left handprints, a muddy face print, and then finally with more mud I wrote: W1’s Door.

  The garbage outline of the door will hold for some time, and my name in letters will remain, too, but my message in mud will wash away with the first rains. Still, I made my mark; any wayfarers who are as lost as I am in this place will know that I was once here: a boy named William1.

  It was past midday when I created my final act of vanity.

  From the boxes and stones at my feet, I built a man. I gave my man of rubble a head, a body, arms, and legs. I crowned him King WILLIAM1 with broken letters from the black boxes. My image in the rubble stood as tall as I could reach, and I was surprised how well he looked. This is my substitute, I thought. This is my way home. If ever I return looking for the door, this man of rubble, made by my hand and crowned with my name, will point the way.

  And now it’s time to leave. I take one last look upon the door, and turn away from Oculum into the wasteland.

  Before I go twenty paces, though, I stop. A creature covered in black hair waits on a pile of rubble ahead of me. It stands on four legs and has only one eye, the other shut and missing. It gently moves its back from side to side, and I think this creature means me no harm. It disappears, then reappears farther away in the rubble, looks at me again, then turns away. It wants me to follow. It must need water and food, and maybe it will show me water and food, too.

  I turn away from the door, my message, my king of garbage, and set out through the rubble behind the one-eyed creature. My mission is simple now: find some-one to help me free Miranda1 and the children of Oculum. I have the book of truth from Mother in my cloak, and as I walk, I recite the poem from the book, again and again:

  We have left you, The thousand chosen, Kept you all safe here, at the fall. There is a door, And you must find it, There is a door, within the wall. Be the brave ones, Then pass beyond it,The Mothers shall rise, at the call.

  Mannfred

  The coughing is terrible. It’s awful to look at the Littluns like this, all red and covered in tiny dots that stand out on their skin, burned up with fever. One of them is too poorly to wake up.

  I’m afraid for the Littluns. Lisle is still well enough, and no spots have turned up on her yet, but Grannie says they may, so there is nothing we can do for her until they do.

  Grannie says it’s not exactly like the Dying Fever; it’s maybe one of the other lesser fevers, but it’s too soon to tell. Whatever sickness, our Littluns caught it from the other cart of Littluns they been playing with. That family is all sick with it too, and the courtyard is filled with hot bodies laid out on sheets, burning up, or crying out, or whimpering. Or coughing. Or worse, lying dull and quiet and staring at the sky.

  Cranker and me take all the eggs the hen laid and knock where people are living in between houses or in courtyards, and trade for water, just water, for our sick Littluns. One woman takes pity on us. She has plenty of Littluns in her own yard, a grannie herself. She gives us two whole goatskins of water from her well, enough for days. We thank her and tell her where Grannie is tending the sick, since she asks.

  When we get back with the water, Grannie has two sacks for us. She
pushes them into our hands then says we have to go now. The first of the Littluns has died, she says. Not one of ours, but one from the other family, and she don’t want to lose her two grown boys. I never seen Grannie afraid in all my life, not ’til now.

  So we got to go, not to come back for three days, Grannie says. I pack up my knife, my woolen sweater, and Grannie’s sack has some hard bread and dried meat in it, and a FatRat skin full of water for each of us. She gives Cranker a flint for making fire, and then she does what she never does. Grannie leans in quick and gives me a kiss on the forehead, and one for Cranker, too.

  Then she turns away to tend to one of the Littluns who is calling her.

  It’s hard to leave, but we do. It’s midday, and we both know where we’re headed. We got three days before we can return, and that’s how long it will take us to get to the dome and back.

  We set out through the rubble, away from the main road. Cranker has a piece of charcoal with him from the fire. I have one too, and we mark the corners and sides of buildings where we turn and twist away from Grannie’s courtyard and all our Littluns. This is how we mark a trail back to them, since we don’t know this place, and the piles of garbage all start to look the same. I put my name, MANN, big and bold, under roofs and along porches, so if it rains we can still see it, and Cranker adds bold arrows pointing back the way we come.

  We pass through empty streets. The sliding-down build-ings, the piles of bricks and garbage, and what Jonatan Briar calls cars and buses, make it hard going. Out here, away from the main streets into the City, no one clears the falling ancient houses, the piles of brick and glass. We pick our way, trying to find streets that are still passable. Sometimes we can. Sometimes we can’t and have to climb over mountains of garbage and rocks and tumbled-down buildings. Sometimes we climb so high, we’re on the same level as the tops of buildings, and we can look out over the busted City before us. It just goes on and on, like there’s no end.