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maybe we can get on with it.
They've been planning ever since I came here, and long before. The central
committee is very careful."
"Thanks for the clothes," he said, remembering how Eleuth had clothed him
before.
"Nothing to it. Try not to destroy them."
"No guarantees," he said ruefully. "Sometimes the best intentions go way
wrong."
"Don't I know it," she said. She fastened her gaze on him and bit her lower
lip.
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"You're very handsome," she said.
"Bull."
"I mean it. You're attractive."
"I think you're beautiful." The words came out before he could assess them.
Helena's expression didn't change for a moment, but then a slow, warm smile
emerged and she touched his knee with her hands. "I
mean it, too," he said.
"You're sweet. What time do you have to be back?" Her tone became businesslike
and she went to the window again.
"Dusk," he said.
"That'll probably come early today. You want to learn why we're so positive we
can resist, and succeed?"
"I suppose," he said.
"You'll have to be sure, now," she said sternly. "I'd have to take you
someplace pretty unpleasant."
"How can I  ? Oh, okay. I'm sure."
"Strong stomach?"
"I guess."
She frowned at him, then held out her hand. He took it and stood up.
"There are several lessons for you to learn," she said. He felt his heart
quicken hopefully, but she put on a shawl and held the apartment door open for
him. "I have friends in the Yard. They'll get us inside. There's somebody I
want you to meet. A Child."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Contents - Prev / Next
The Yard was at Euterpe's center, a broad, flat brick building surrounded by
streets uncharacteristically wide for the human town. Helena marched ahead of
him, an intent look on her face. "Nobody likes to go here," she said. "I don't
go often. Savarin comes here more often than the rest."
The entrance to the yard was narrow, barely two feet wide, and blocked with a
heavy woven wicker door a foot thick. Helena pulled a knob and glass chimes
tinkled faintly within. A peephole slid open in the brick wall beside the door
and a yellow, bleary eye peered at them.
"Sherebith, it's me," Helena said. The wicker door opened with a hollow
scraping sound.
"Yes, Miss Helena. What can I do for you?" A yellow-faced, plump woman in a
long gray gown stood in the half-open en trance way, arms folded, staring at
Michael with neither trust nor liking.
"This is a friend," Helena said. "I'd like him to see the Yard and meet
Ishmael. Michael, this is
Sherebith."
Michael held out his hand. "Glad to meet you," he said. The woman looked at
the hand, grimaced in disbelief and opened the door wider. "Come in," she said
in a resigned tone. "He's been quiet today. The others are following his
example. Thank whomever for small favors."
Sherebith led them down a dark corridor, the walls, floor and ceiling of which
were made of close-spaced bricks the color of dried dung. Some light entered
through narrow slits at intervals of six or seven strides;
the only other illumination was from wax candles ensconced between the slits.
Despite the musty smell, the floors and walls seemed clean and well-tended.
Sherebith went first, followed by Helena and then
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Michael, who had the nagging urge to look over his shoulder.
The interior was silent. At the end of the corridor was another heavy wicker
door, this one studded on the outside with more glass chimes. "Alarms," Helena
said, tinkling one before Sherebith opened the door and set them all ringing.
Beyond was an open court about ten feet square, again made of brick and devoid
of ornament. In each of the four walls was another door. Sherebith stepped to
the door directly opposite and unlatched it. As the door creaked open, a damp
thick odor wafted out, combining the worst traits of musty cellars and the
sewer sludge Michael's father used on the family garden.
The candles burned dimmer in the thick air beyond. There were no slits for
lighting, but covered ventilator holes in the ceiling admitted faint barred
spots of day.
The room's opposite walls were lost in darkness. Square brick columns
supported the low ceiling, each side holding a guttering candle. Michael saw
pits dug into the floor, each about ten feet on a side and faced with brick
and tile. Michael counted seven. "Compound three," Sherebith said. "I call it
Leader of the Howl Compound, because of Ishmael. He's the big one. The
instigator." She pointed to benches near each pit. "When the compounds were
built, people thought perhaps the parents would like to come visit their
children now and then. Nobody has, not since the first few months. Only me and
the caretaker. I'm the warden." She smiled, revealing snaggled, yellow teeth.
"I'm the only one who cares about them, who's kind to them, except the
caretaker."
"What about Savarin?" Helena suggested gently.
"Him? He has reasons to come here. He gets them upset sometimes. No love for
Savarin. Does he listen to them when night's down and they hear the calls from
the Plain, things you and I can't hear? No." She pointed to her small, curled
ears, hidden beneath straight strands of graying hair. "Calls from their real
kin. The bodies mean nothing. It's what's in the bottles that counts, not the
shape nor the labels."
She led them to the middle pit. Michael glanced into the other pits as they
passed; the walkways were only a yard wide, and it was difficult to stay calm
with the unknown on each side. Each pit held a single pale, reclining figure,
some child-sized, some larger. He couldn't make out details.
Sherebith leaned over the middle pit. "Ishmael," she called softly. "Ishmael,
are you home?" A thin gray figure stirred in the shadows.
"Yes, Mother." The voice was thick, deep and cultured, imbued with an abyssal
sadness. Michael felt a tug on some emotion that he could not immediately
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