The GoldenCity

He heard voices and began crawling through the tangled vegetation. When he reached a thicket of plants with leaves that looked like strips of old leather, he moved cautiously.

Eleven men and women sat around a fire. It was a woeful, ragged-looking group-like the survivors of a flood or a tornado. Both sexes wore wide-brimmed hats woven from dry grass and long boots with the top part folded down at the knees. The women were dressed in black skirts and blouses with red or green trousers underneath while the men’s clothing displayed bright geometric designs-mostly squares and triangles. Each person also wore something around their neck: a red collar about three inches wide with a silver clasp. Their only other possessions were long curved knives that hung from their belts.

The group was arguing about something. When the voices became louder, an old man struggled to his feet. He had bandy legs, stringy hair, and a paunch that sagged over his belt buckle. “He’s a thief!” the old man announced. “He’s a squat-house thief who cared nothing for the boots working beside him. But the trouble is-he’s the thief and we’re the ones that pay.”

A young woman stopped feeding twigs to the fire. “The wet crawlers are on their way here. And now we’re one beneath twelve.”

Michael could understand most of what they were saying, but the rhythm of their speech, the inflection of their words, seemed to come from an earlier time. Trying not to make any noise, he crawled a few feet to the right and saw a dead man hanging from a noose tied to a tree.

He considered crawling back through the undergrowth to the levee, then rejected the idea. Come to us was the message that appeared on the monitor screen. Yes, these people were carrying knives, but the sheaths were stained and smeared with dirt. They’re tools, Michael thought. Not weapons. He stood up, pushed his way through the underbrush and stepped into the clearing. Everyone in the group looked startled and the old man began blinking rapidly, like a cave creature pulled into the light.

“What’s the name of this place?” Michael asked.

“The-the waterfields,” the old man stammered. “That’s the old name. Of course maybe they’ll hammer up a new one.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“We’re faithful servants, sir. All of us. As you can see.” The old man touched his collar. “We’re here to harvest the spark.”

Michael pointed at the hanging man. “And who is that?”

“He’s a thief.” This announcement prompted grumbling and comments from the rest of the group. Yes. A thief. Worse than a contempter.

“What did he steal?”

The old man seemed astonished at the question. “He killed himself and stole his life, sir. The gods own that and only the gods can take it from you.”

Michael glanced at the suicide and saw that the branch was too low for a quick, neck-snapping death. The man’s eyes were open and the toes of his boots touched the ground as if he were an awkward ballet dancer.

A broad-faced man stood up and spoke angrily. “No more teeth and tongue. We’re all in the same pot and you’re puttin’ it on the fire.”

“He’s not a servant,” the old man said, nodding at Michael. “He’s not a militant either or we’d be burnin’ on the ground. Don’t know what he is and what he wants-so what’s the harm in talkin’ to him?”

“He’s a guardian,” the young woman said. “Just like the ones on the visionary.”

“That’s right,” Michael said quickly. “I’m a guardian. And I’m here to see the waterfields.”

“Well, now you’ve seen them,” a voice said. “So run back to the center.”

“Wait! Wait! Let me calculate now,” the old man said. “Grant me a short measure.” Everyone watched as he paced back and forth in the narrow clearing. Whenever the old man stopped and changed direction, he kicked a divot in the packed dirt. After a minute or so of this ritual, he made a quick about-face and approached Michael. The few teeth left in his mouth were crooked and stained, but he smiled broadly.

“To your ears, sir-I’m Verga sire-Toshan. And what would your tag be?”

“Michael.”

The name sounded odd to Verga, but he shrugged and continued. “Now you say you’re a guardian here to see the waterfields. But we’ve all heard tales of contempters running from the city with militants after them. You’re like a finner on dry land-flopping around while the night birds gather. But we can save you if you help us with our error.”

“What kind of help are you talking about?”

“Three must be,” Verga intoned, as if reciting a passage of scripture. “If we’re one short of three then the church militants appear. Join us. Be a faithful servant. Help us cut the spark.”

A murmur of approval came from the others. Michael realized that if he joined them, the number of workers once again became a multiple of three. He had no idea who the militants were, but it was best to keep a low profile until he learned more about this realm.