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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6DMRX53UxE&list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S&index=11
>From what you can gather visually, this part of the Inquisitory is older than Kiba is. They always said that Kiba was built on an old war-time bunker, and this must be it
>Just one look and you can tell the walls are thick
>Several solid feet of stone between you and the surface down here. There’s no need for windows this deep underground
>These are walls built to keep secrets
>Meant to contain screams
>Being down here feels like being held under water
>You try not to think about what might happen to you as you’re led — hands bound behind you — down a long, everflame-lit hallway, with doctor Anna Mueller leading ahead of you, Echo on a leash
>Echo tries to pull on his leash, but finds his throat cinched in a metal vise as the choke chain activates
>It hurts you to hear him cough and hack like that, but you know it’s just his instincts driving him to escape from his situation
>He’s a smart animal, but he’s not used to being constricted
>The everflame sconces on either side of the hallway cast your sad, defeated shadow against the wall, and you move with a weak limp
>Your party stops at a door near the end of the hallway
>”One moment, please,” Anna says
>She spends a few seconds undoing the many locks on the door
>Your heart skips with anxiety every time you hear those tumblers roll back and thunk into place
>THUNK
>BAM
>THUNK
>BAM
>Like a powerful kick drum in your skull
>The doctor pushes open the door and offers you the lead with a gesture
>”Please, make yourself comfortable,” she smiles
>’Comfortable’
>You step into a windowless room, one lit by a small everflame lamp set up on a small table in the center of the space
>There are two chairs in this room, and nothing else
>’Comfortable’
>Anna undoes your shackles. They fall away with heavy CLUNKs as they hit the hard, stone floors
>For the first time all night, you feel the kiss of cool air against your chafed wrists
“Thank you,” you mutter, voice low and frightened, eyes no longer meeting Anna’s
>Somehow the doctor must have heard you muttering, because she beams all proud, and says, “We won’t need those anymore.”
>The room feels close, the walls press in from all sides like they might crush you
>You stretch your arms as far as they’ll go
>Your fingers meet the wall
>’Comfortable’
>Anna takes the wooden chair opposite of you, her journal and pen in-hand, a small vial of ink at her left
>She takes a moment to rearrange a few documents on the table. She then looks up at you and smiles with something that you read as sympathy
>”How are you doing, Anon? Do you need anything right now?” she says. “Food? Water? It’s been a long night for you. For me, too, trust me.”
>Your service fox paces at the locked door, the leash no longer constricting his neck
>Echo’s whine punctuates the silence between yourself and Anna
>You eye the doctor over like a feral animal brought to a shelter
>This woman and your former Headmaster just effectively kidnapped you, on grounds that you have a genetic defect that defies God’s order…
>…and now she wants to take care of you?
>The emotional whiplash gives you slight pause
>But, you’re still a little drunk, and you’ve only had whiskey since they brought you here
>You suppose there’s no harm in something to drink
“Water. Please,” you say, dropping into the only other chair at this table
>The ground beneath you that once spun like a top has now settled into a slow pirouette
>Water arrives via a posted guard
>Anna watches you take cautious sips — she pays close attention to your gloved hands
>She takes notes
>You set the glass down
>Her pen scribbles across her notebook, or onto some pre-drafted form
>Echo threads himself between your legs and vocalizes his presence with a sharp yip
>You wince and look down as the fox hops into your lap
>You don’t have to be a Foxer to read Echo right now
>’Take me home!’
>You turn to Anna, stroking Echo’s ears back
“What’s going to happen to me? To my family?”
>Anna pauses, looks up, brown-green eyes flashing
>”Do you want honesty, or the answer I’m supposed to tell you?”
>Her blunt response catches you off guard
>Your pause draws a coy smile from the doctor
>”These rooms are totally soundproof, you know? The guard outside can’t even hear us. So let me be clear, before we begin: there are some things I can’t tell you. There are some things I can tell you. And then there are things I can’t tell you but will, anyway.”
>Welp, you know the answer you want
“Honesty is what I want.”
>She sets her pen down for a moment as your eyes meet, like flint catching steel for the first time
>Those earthy-brown eyes, speckled with flecks of green, narrow into appraising slits
>”We put a hold on your sister for further research. Your uncle is in containment until he sobers up. But you asked me ‘what’s going to happen’ to them, not where they are. My answer won’t satisfy you, but it’s God’s honest truth.”
“At least tell me they’ll be alright?”
>She responds with a slight shrug
>”Before we discovered you were a dream walker, you had three options: service in the Church’s Central Nexus — provided you were a telepath, telekinetic, or something useful. Exile because you’re an abomination. Or, you spend the rest of your life in one of our labs under constant study.”
“And now?”
>A wide smirk blossoms across her face when you ask that question
>”Well, to be honest, a dream walker is an exceptionally rare type of mutation — one that’s crucial to my research, as well as Neelan’s work. If you’re as good as we think you are, there’s no limit to what you can do.”
>Funny enough, it only reminds you that you’re basically in an interrogation bunker beneath Kiba’s Central Nexus
>”Your sister and your uncle are getting cut the same deal, I’m sure. Just cooperate and everything will be okay. Don’t worry about making decisions or outcomes right now. Just be honest, like I’m being with you. Now, I’ve been honest with you. Don’t you think one good turn deserves another?”
> She lets the question trail in the air
>Fuck
>You really don’t get a choice here, do you?
>But… all they want is information…
>Right now, that is
>And technically you’re already in service to the Church — you’re a fucking Foxer!
>You were LITERALLY waiting for a call up to go beyond the walls
>What do you have to lose?
>Head heavy with drink, you nod, eager to see a resolution and get out of this
>Her smile grows a bit more, and she says, “Good. We’ll hold each other to that. Now, let’s get started here.”
>She cracks open her journal and picks a heading
>”To be blunt with you, Anon, you have some interesting history. According to the oldest Church records I could pull, your parents died about two years apart from each other. Cause of death for mom was sudden arrest — years of alcohol abuse — and your father … I-I don’t know how to put this politely… just vanished. I mean, we have no record of death, no grave site-”
“I know what happened to my parents,” you say with a sudden, defensive growl
>Anna presses on, jamming a pen at you
>”How old were you when this all happened?”
“Twelve,” you reply, stiff as drink
>”And your sister? How old was she?”
>”Eleven.”
>Anna pauses for a second. Her look of concentration falters, and she turns her attention away from her journal, towards you
>”You two were so… young when all of that happened to you two. I’m…” she searches your drunken, tired, tear-stained face for the words to rectify your trauma
>There are none, but she tries anyway
>”I’m… deeply sorry for your losses — and at such a young age, too,” she says. She closes her journal shut and crosses her legs. “What happened to you after that? So your parents aren’t in the picture and there’s no way to afford Academy. How did you two manage?”
>You almost open your mouth to tell her, but you catch yourself
>There’s some memories that they’re not allowed to have
>Painful, frostbitten memories
>This is one of them:
>Be Anon
>It’s late January, on the outskirts of Kiba
>You’re twelve
>On your back
>And…
>…the taste of iron is rich in your mouth as your head rolls backwards, your watery tear-stung eyes meeting the slate-gray clouds of a winter sky with a placid, hurt stare
>Light flecks of snow flutter down on you from above — not enough to be any trouble for anyone with shelter, warmth, food
>Which does not apply to you or your sister, who presently live in a tent staked in a derelict house outside of town
>You have almost nothing to your name
>But the kids beating the piss out of you?
>You know what you DO have that these other shitheels don’t?
>Pity money
>A few hundred lyra worth of loose coins, earned from begging, all hidden in a small envelope and buried by hand beneath an old oak tree in this part of town
>You struggle to breath as one of your assailants — heard his name was Jeremiah — sits astride your chest
>”For the last Goddamn time, street rat, where’s the rest of the money? We know you have more,” he barks
>That red-haired, freckle-faced, green-eyed fuck raises his bruised knuckle in the air
>”I know trash like you always keep two stashes. I was going to break both of your arms, but I’ll cut you a deal, kid: tell me where the other one is and I’ll only break the left one.”
>His sheer weight crushes the breath out of you
>You wheeze, trying to draw in enough air to respond
>”Don’t tell these punks anything!” Natalie screams, her throat raw from sobbing and begging
>Your eyes flick over to a copse of aspen trees and prairie brush — frosted with snow — where your sister is held
>She thrashes in the grasp of two boys, both roughly your age
>You stare into the sneering faces of your assailants, and can quickly determine that they’re everything you are not
>Clean clothes purchased, pressed and cared for by mothers
>Ill-gotten lyra in their pockets, or dropped in their laps, courtesy of the bank of mom and dad
>A spiteful view of those beneath them
>An inherent lack of empathy
>The fat one — Jeremiah — straddles your chest after having beaten the shit out of you
>His other friend keeps watch for adults nearby
>But…
>This part of Kiba — this far out in the boonies, where the houses thin out into rolling hills dotted with blue spruce, aspen, conifer; where a carpet of prairie grass crawls over derelict buildings?
>Where the road dissolves into nothing, and then reappears again a few miles on?
>Nobody’s going to save you out here, especially not two vagrant kids
>”Hey, I’m asking you a question, rat!” Jeremiah demands wetting your face with spit
>You tried fighting… initially…
>…and of course you, lost
>Jer’s at least a head taller, and a lot heavier
>So now you have to worm your way out of this with words
“You already have all our of our money,” you spit back at him, flecks of your blood now coating Jeremiah’s face. “I swear, that’s all we have…”
>THAT was a bold-faced lie — one that might cost you your arms — but that’s all people like Jeremiah and his crew deserve:
>Lies and concussions
>It’s getting harder to breathe as the fat lummox sinks further down into the snowy underbrush
>He must have one-hundred pounds on you, and he inflicts his well-fed frame on your chest
>God does not intercede in the matters of children and young teenagers. This is a private world, with its own rules and food chain
>And as far as your place in it is concerned, you and Natalie occupy the space right above cockroaches (notably directly beneath rats)
>Jeremiah’s anger courses through you like a hot river of lava in your veins. It radiates off him like heat from the sun travels through cold space…
>…eventually reaching you down here, one slate-gray, January afternoon
>Jeremiah leans in real close, a sickening devil’s grin spread across his pale, pudgy face
>His rosy cheeks curl up into a smug grin
>”You know why I enjoy doing this to you fucking bums?” he says
“Cause you’re a fucking coward?”
>The world goes bright with a quick, painful flash as Jeremiah belts you across the face, his fist bouncing off your cheekbone
>Blood rivers out of your nose and mouth, trickling down the side of your face
>He sits atop you, his chest heaving in his red winter coat
>”It’s because nobody cares about you fucks. You get it?” he growls. “Nobody comes looking after you; nobody calls the Zealots or the guards to help you…”
>Your gloved hands search through the snow and forest underbrush
>You’re looking for something — anything — that can help you
>That shit-eating sneer returns to Jer’s face
>”You got no mom or dad to go home to…”
“Shut the fuck up about my family,” you say, teeth ramming together
>Your right glove catches on something in the snowy brush
>Something smooth and hard; something wet from the snow that concealed it,
>It fits nicely into your palm as your finger curl around a rock
>But this is no mere rock
>No…
>This is a stone, and a hefty one at that
>Speaking of hefty
>This big fat fuck on top of you loves to gloat, like he did anything impressive besides outnumber you and beat you into submission
>And why do they always, ALWAYS gloat?
>But it’s what he says next that sends you over the edge
>”You know what? I was thinking I’d take your sister over there for a spin, you know what I mean? I think I’ll-”
“I said shut the fuck up about my FAMLY!” you scream, body flush hot with rage
>In an explosion of anger and aggression, you bring the heavy stone in your right hand around in a tight arc
>Aiming directly for the side of Jeremiah’s skull
>Jeremiah barely has time to react before that cold, wet stone collides with the side of his head, instantly crumpling him
>There’s an audible, hollow thunk of solid contact where the thin spring of the flesh ends and the bone begins
>Where your stone intrudes
>Your assailant doesn’t scream like you expect him to
>He cuts an audible groan and falls to the side, collapsing face-first into the snowy underbrush
>You pull yourself to your feet and take a heavy jump backwards, trembling, flush with adrenaline. You hold the stone in your hand, ready to continue the fight
>The three remaining goonies that follow Jeremiah eye you with their arms limp at their side, unsure eyes flicking between your weapon and Jeremiah, who convulses in the snowy underbrush
>Suddenly the game is over
>Your sister slips free of her assailants and sprints to your side
>”Anon!” she says, throwing her arms around you, her small-ish body firmly anchored to your shaking form
>Natalie’s fear and anxiety — like poison injected into your veins — overwhelm your circuitry
“Natalie,” you say in a shaking whisper. “Natalie, we need to leave. Before the shock wears off.”
>Jeremiah’s cronies rush to surround their de facto leader
>They stand over Jeremiah’s shaking, unconscious body and ask each other what to do, sometimes flicking glances over your direction
>They’re helpless
>They’re just…
>Kids
>One of them might even be Natalie’s age, God above
>You grab Natalie’s hand, still shaking, and start walking through the snow, fingers still curled around the stone in your free hand
>Natalie stumbles as you pull her with you, not looking back at those stuck-up, would-be thieves, playing criminal with their pleasant homes and graciously assured futures at one of Kiba’s academies
>Too bad they threatened what remains of your family
>Too bad they threatened to destroy the pathetic life you built for Natalie
>You might have given them the money if they let you both go. But you won’t give them to her. Not your sister. Not what’s left of your family
>You and Natalie appeared like a micrometeorite passing through the skull, forever altering the trajectory of at least one of those pricks’ lives
>Those fucking kids who once tried to break your bones with their fists and kicks now grow smaller and smaller in the distance
>You travel up an embankment and find the road back into town again
>But Natalie?
>Natalie still looks back, even as you drag her up the small, man-made hill
>”Is that guy going to be okay? You really nailed him with that rock,” she says
“It doesn’t matter,” you reply with a shaking voice. “I was protecting you. I did what I had to do.”
>”But what if-”
“No,” you silence her with a tense voice. “There are no worries; no fear. You can’t be afraid to protect what matters to you, okay, Nat? Especially from bad people. You and I are all we have right now. So if you value that, keep walking, and don’t look back any more.”
>”T-That’s why I was so scared, Anon. God above, I thought they were going to really hurt you…”
“I think they might have,” you whisper in reply
>Silence follows, ringing clear like a struck bell
>You let go of Natalie’s hand as you climb onto the road
“C’mon, let’s get back to town and find something to eat. Sun’s going down in a couple of hours.”
>Natalie walks at your side, throwing scared glances over her shoulder
>Back in underground, in the present, you decide on a short, simple answer
“For a few months Natalie and I were on our own. This was after mom and dad disappeared out of our lives.”
>”As vagrants?” Anna cuts in, unsympathetic
>You nod with trained obedience, hoping compliance gets you into God’s graces
>”Vagrants are a real problem in Vigil — far, far too many of them if you ask me,” she sidebars
>You glare at the doctor in silence, but do eventually continue after you’re sure she’s concluded her rant on the disgusting, insane, criminal homeless population outside the Central Nexus
>”Anyway, go on,” she says, returning to her notes
>You draw a deep sigh and continue on
“We lived almost a whole year in shelters all over Kiba, but most of the time we slept outside in the city proper. Sometimes we camped outside the city, but we couldn’t do that during winter. When sleeping outside wasn’t an option, our age — mostly Natalie’s — helped us get to the front of lines for food, poor houses, alms, that sort of stuff,” you say
>”My God. For almost a year?”
>You nod
>”And your uncle — how is he in the picture at that point?”
“Greg is my dad’s brother. He moved to Kiba to take care of us once news broke that his brother vanished and he got the money together for a place. Greg spent a few months looking for us apparently,” you say. “But his help is part of how Natalie and I got through Academy. I think he paid for most of it.”
>Anna nods thoughtfully and turns her attention to her bag on the floor
>”Church records reflect hundreds of complete payments to Kiba’s Second Academy on yours and your sister’s behalf; that’s quite generous of him,” Anna says as she roots through her bag. “Now, your parents, were they dream walkers too? At least from what you can remember?”
“Mom was a dream walker. Dad was just… regular, I guess. But he always supported me; never saw me as any different. And it was mom who taught me everything I know,” you say
>You can still hear her voice in your ear, whispering prayers to you with your eyes closed as you drift off to sleep
>Feel her gentle breath on your skin, calming and warm
>You drift back to countless lessons and sacred rites passed down from generations
>You smile a little
“Mom helped me understand a little more about myself; how I was different. But she made me feel less different back then,” you say, almost dreamily, mind reeling back to happier times
>”She taught you to keep a dream journal?” Anna slides your red leather dream journal across the table
>You wince at the bareness of your subconscious now rendered Church property, exposed on the table
>You feel oddly violated — on top of what’s already going on
>”If it’s any consolation, we haven’t read it — yet. We only recovered it from your room and brought it here,” she says, back in her seat
>You spin the pages and catch fragments of remembered dreams, of narratives half-fulfilled in its pages
>Anna leans on her elbows
>”I admit, Church resources on dream walkers are… threadbare at best. I’ve read through all of them several times because there’s just not much there. But I know that dream journals are an important part of what you do. I just assumed that’s what this is.”
>She watches you examine your journal
“Mom had me keep a journal the moment she caught me in one of her dreams,” you say, “I was six — I barely knew how to write. I mostly just drew pictures in it.”
>”Fascinating. But I have to ask, what’s the point of it?”
You pause. “Of what, the journal?”
>”Writing down your dreams. What good does that do? Every bit of Church research on dream walkers mentions dream journals.”
>You think for a second
>What’s the point of keeping a dream journal?
>For one, it’s to help remember the details of the dream better — because after a while, dreams have a habit of slipping away. The waking mind overwrites the sleeping mind within minutes of lucidity
>And two, it helps develop your lucidity — the ability to think and act with agency in a dream or surreal/liminal space
“You know how when you wake up after a dream you can remember it for only a few minutes afterwards?” you say, leaning forward
>The doctor crooks her head
>”I do,” she says, “but I thought that was just me being forgetful.”
>”Your memories and grasp of that dream decay when you wake. Not so long after, you can’t remember it at all,” you say. “Part of your success as a dream walker hinges on your ability to distinguish the dream world from reality. Dream journals give you a chance to study and reflect on whatever your dream was about.”
>Anna is about to ask a follow up question, when Echo jumps into your lap
>The nimble fox then leaps up onto the table with cat-like grace
>He flattens himself against the table as he approaches the doctor, ears pasted back against his gray skull
>Echo sniffs her over with apprehension
>”Oh, may I?” she says, her hand hovering over Echo
“Sure, sure. He’s a huge ham and loves attention.”
>She runs her nimble fingers through Echo’s fur, stroking down the length of his spine
>”I seldom get to interact with the foxes in the lab anymore, what with my new role in the Inquisitory,” she looks at you and sighs. “By the way, we might visit the lab tonight. Anyway, continue.”
>Echo leans into her touch, eyes squeezed shut in bliss
“Dream journals help me remember my dreams so I can have them again,” you say. “And again. And again. Until I know them inside and out. Until I know what it is my mind is trying to tell me; and what I need to do in that dream to find… I don’t know… a resolution?” you say
>”Have you ever changed a dream for someone? Or, have you ever learned some information about someone by dream walking?”
>Huh
>That question seems… oddly specific
>How many times have you helped Natalie — or Greg — deal with nightmares?
>How many times have you fought harvesters with Greg on the walls, or saved Natalie from bullies in school (not really though)
>How honest are you willing to be?
“A… a few times, I suppose.”
>Which is the less-than-honest answer
>Anna leans forward, way too close, the faded notes of her perfume diffusing into the air around her like an invisible miasma
>You lean back in response
>”That, Anonymous, is what we’re interested in learning about — the power of dreams, combined with your ability to infiltrate them” she says, giddy. “You can touch people and step right into their subconscious, can’t you?”
>Anna’s uncontained excitement sends Echo to your side of the table
>You swallow and nod
“They have to be asleep, but yes, that’s the basic principle. Mom used to say that the dreaming mind is an unlocked door,” you reason. “and what… what do you mean ‘infiltrate dreams’? Am I not a Foxer anymore?” you say as you stroke down Echo’s fur
>”No, no, you’re still a Foxer. We’re not here to take that from you. It’s actually a boon to you and your sister that you can navigate Purgatory so effectively.”
>She pauses and smiles wide with an amateurish attempt at kindness, but you get the sense she’s being sincere. “Try not to think of me as an Inquisitor, or a doctor, but a person who is trying to help you find your place in the Church again. Does that make sense?”
>Those words, ‘find your place in the church again’ scare you, but Anna presses on despite your apparent distress
>”Andddddd lucky for you my work with Edward Neelan overlaps with your particular skill set. I can’t think of a greater blessing than your deliverance to us tonight, actually.”
>You’re a… blessing?
>What?
“These are all… good things, right? Like you’re going to let my family go when we’re done here?”
>You can release the tension in your body, right?
“And you’re not- not gonna exile me or my family?” you say as Echo keys in on your fear
>He settles in your lap with an exhausted sigh, clearly ready for bed
>”No — well, at least not tonight. And besides, that’s only partially my decision. It’s partially Neelan’s, too. But most of all, it’s your decision,” she says as she stands from her seat. She shoulders a brown leather messenger bag
“What do you mean?” you probe, surprised by her response
>She extends a hand to you to help you out of your chair
>”If you come with me to the lab, I’ll show you what I mean. Or, you can refuse our offer, and I’ll report what you told me to the Bishop. And then we go from there.”
>It’s the ambiguity of her words that give you pause
>You can only look at her outstretched hand, her offer of temporary refuge from the holy storm you wrought like a lifeline in choppy waters
>Your mind spins and spins and spins, like a circle in a spiral, but the answer seems all too obvious:
>You either walk out the gates with your family — together, as exiles — or you work with the Church and let them make of you what they will
>After another few seconds of hesitation, you put your hand in hers
>And the second you do — even through the gloves you wear — you can feel her excitement pulse in you like a second heartbeat
>You try not to let it overwhelm you, but Anna pulls you up out of your chair and clasps her other slender hand on your shoulder
>”You’re making the right choice here — for you and your family. Now, if you’ll just follow me, and bring Echo. We’ll need him.”
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall