Morningside Fall

FOUR

Night had fallen over Morningside, and with it came an uneasy sort of quiet without any peace. The kind of quiet that made Wren think of waiting in the clinic — when everyone was just sitting there not talking, and he knew he had to get a shot — and the whole time it felt like nobody was talking because they were all too busy thinking about how much it was going to hurt. The whole city felt like that to him now, like all those people were just out there, waiting. Waiting and thinking about how much it was going to hurt.

When he’d first come, Morningside had seemed so clean and perfect. All clean lines and smooth curves, and room enough for everything, and everything right where it belonged. After just a few days inside the wall, it was hard to remember how broken everything was beyond it. Broken, and dirty, and never enough of anything — except the stuff you didn’t want and too much of that; too much cold, too much hunger, too much fear.

But not here. Not inside. There were wide roads, all smooth without any cracks or holes, and lights all along the sides so you could walk from the governor’s compound to the main gate and back without ever stepping on a shadow if you wanted. And shops all along both sides, where you could find just about anything you wanted. Places to get all kinds of foods, foods Wren had never even been able to imagine before he came here. Stores that only sold beds, with so many inside the first time he’d seen one he asked the owner if the whole city slept there. And the owner had just laughed and laughed and patted him on the head like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. And there were shops with clothes that were brand new that no one else had ever worn, and they’d make to fit you, no matter how small you were for your age.

Even the people, the people seemed like they’d been made with the city, at the same time, by the same hands. All clean and gracious and never touched by anything sad. At least that’s how they’d seemed when he’d first come to Morningside. Now Wren knew how it was, though. He’d gotten a really good look for himself. People were still people, no matter how good they had it. They always brought the broken in with them.

Wren hadn’t been out at night in a few days, and hadn’t been outside the wall in, what was it… almost three months now? Not since the night he’d snuck out through the secret tunnel that ran from the compound to a hidden place outside. The night he’d felt like if he stayed in the compound another minute, his insides would’ve gotten all crushed down, and Wren would never have been able to breathe ever again. The night he’d woken Painter.

Mama had been mad about that; mad about him sneaking out, mad about the gashes he came home with, all along his ribs. Madder than Wren could ever remember seeing her. And North had just shaken his head and said he was disappointed, and that had hurt the worst. But they’d rescued Painter — Wren and Mouse and Able — and then, they’d gone back out and found him and brought him in, and that had made it all worthwhile. Painter was a good friend; kind and generous. Almost like an older brother. A good older brother. Not like the other kind.

And now Wren had to take him heavy news. It’d taken all of Wren’s powers of persuasion, but he’d finally managed to convince his mother to let him leave the compound on his most solemn vow that he’d go only to Mister Sun’s Tea House and come straight back when he was done. Only Able accompanied Wren, to avoid attracting the attention that his usual contingent of guards would’ve drawn; Able had done all the convincing on that one. Well, only Able was right there with him. There were others, others walking ahead and others walking behind — Mouse and Wick and Gamble, always watchful. And Wren was pretty sure that Mama was out there somewhere, keeping her distance and keeping an eye on them. She’d gotten better at hiding herself from him since… since she woke up.

Able had taken him in a meandering path, spiraling out from the governor’s compound and throughout the city. There were fewer people out on the streets, as Able had said. Since the night of the attack. For the most part, those they passed nodded silent greetings or ignored them, and Able was cautious about letting anyone trail them for long.

After about twenty minutes into what was normally a ten-minute walk, they finally reached the Tea House. Wren felt Able’s hand on his shoulder, turning him gently.

Five minutes, Able signed. If he won’t come, we leave without him.

Wren nodded.

And don’t take off the hat.

Wren nodded. He hated the hat. It was round and flat, with a low brim and a stupid orange fluffy ball on top of it, but apparently a lot of kids his age wore them. Well, not his age. Kids his size. Younger ones.

Able held out his hand, and Wren took it, and together they went up the steps into the Tea House, hopefully looking to any casual observer like a father and son out for a quick cup of Mister Sun’s famous Dreamtime Blend. Wren was nervous, knowing the coming conversation wouldn’t be easy, and knowing no one else could have it but him.

But the instant they crossed through the door, Wren felt himself relax, like he was crawling back into a warm bed on a cold morning. Mister Sun’s Tea House was just like that.

The main room was a little dimmer than Wren’s eyes were used to, even coming in out of the night. It was lit mainly by little flickering lights placed all around that looked like something Mister Sun called candles, except real candles used real fire, he said. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. And Wren’s favorite thing: there was a wide pool with a little bridge over it, and real fish swimming in it. There was a fountain that fed the pool, made to look like a little stream, and another one going out the other side, so that the stream went around the entire central room — and the sound of it always gave Wren the impression of rain on a roof. It was a drowsy atmosphere, with a low drone of quiet conversation and the soothing scents of tea and herbs and honeyed cakes drifting through.

Mister Sun came over to greet his newest customers, like he did for every single one, hunched over with his crooked back and always his smile. “Hello, my friend,” he said, beaming. Mister Sun called everyone “my friend”. “Hello, so good to see you, my friend!”

When he got close, he gave a little start as he recognized Wren, and his eyes went to Able, who shook his head ever so slightly. Mister Sun nodded, hardly missing a beat, and held out his good hand to direct them towards an empty table towards the back.

No one actually knew what Mister Sun’s real name was, but Aron had told Wren that back a long time ago, when he first opened the Tea House, some woman had said he was the city’s night-time sun, and eventually everyone just started calling him that.

He escorted them through the main room, his warm patter comforting everyone he passed, reassuring them that absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was going on. “We have seven teas tonight for special, only seven, I’m so sorry, my friend, but maybe tomorrow night you’ll come earlier?” He chuckled. “Out past bedtime, yes? Does Mother know? Boys’ night out, is it? Or, ha ha — boys snuck out while Mother has girls’ night out, I bet! I bet so, my friend, I bet so!” Though Mister Sun was friendly with everyone, he was truly a friend to the Governor, and doing a masterful job of covering Able’s silence with a rhythm of his own words that implied more than was actually there. A casual listener would’ve assumed there were two sides to the one-sided conversation, the soft-spoken father’s responses lost to the gentle hum of the room.

“Here you are, my friend,” he said, pulling a chair out for Wren. “Dreamtime as usual? Excellent, and for Father?”

We need to see Painter, Able signed.

“Two Dreamtime, very fine, very fine.” Mister Sun nodded. He bowed slightly, smiling all the way, and drifted easily towards the back room. “My friend, drink up and go home before Wife comes to find you!” he said to some regular at another table, earning a good-natured chuckle. He disappeared through a swinging door.

Wren kept his eyes on the table in front of him, drawing little figure eights with his index finger on the smooth, polished surface. Trying to think of what to say, how to say it.

A few moments later Mister Sun glided up to table with a tray balanced expertly on the back of his withered left hand, a small pot and two matching handleless mugs upon it. As he arranged the items on the table with his other hand, he leaned closer to Wren, as if listening intently.

“To see how we blend?” he said. “Of course, my friend, of course, if it is OK with Father?” Able nodded, and held up five fingers. “Five minutes. Yes, yes, come with me.” And Mister Sun stepped back, took Wren’s hand, and led him casually back to the back room, conveniently shielding Wren from the other customers by bending in front of him, talking the whole way. “I think you will find it very interesting, my friend, very interesting, and you can surprise Mother with what you learn. Unless Mother isn’t supposed to know!”

Mister Sun shepherded Wren through the swinging door and into a little side room, where Painter was already waiting for him.

“Thanks, Mister Sun,” Wren said.

“Of course, Master Wren, anything and everything for you, always.” He bowed a little, and then stepped out and closed the door to the room, leaving Wren and Painter together.

“Hi, Painter,” Wren said.

“Hey, Wruh- Wruh- Wruh…” Painter said, struggling to get his mouth around the words. He shook his head once, hard, like he was trying to crack his neck. “Hey, Wren. How’re things?”

Wren shrugged and looked at the floor. No reason to lie about it. “Not so great.”

Painter nodded. “Because of that Council mmmm-meeting?”

“Sort of. And other stuff.”

Painter nodded again, and the two stood in silence for a moment.

“Painter, I have to tell you something.”

“OK.”

“But before I tell you, I have to ask you to promise you won’t tell anybody else.”

“Alrrr- alrrrr…” the word caught in his mouth. Painter stopped himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Alright.”

“It’s really important that nobody else finds out, OK? Like, really important.”

“I won’t tuh…” Painter fought another word out. Wren waited patiently. “…tell anyone.”

“OK. Well. OK. The night before you and Luck… you know, before you came to visit. Something happened. At the compound.” Wren felt a rush of adrenaline, the memory of the attack freshly renewed, now with new dreadful significance. Painter remained silent, attentive. “Someone got in. A girl. And she tried to… hurt… me.” He couldn’t bring himself to say what she was really there to do.

Painter’s unnatural eyes widened in perfectly natural surprise. “She ah… attacked you?” he asked.

“She tried, but I heard her coming and I got away. But, she didn’t. She hurt herself.” Wren felt tears welling up again at the thought, and put a finger in the corner of his eye to try to stop it. “I guess she didn’t want to get caught, and she hurt herself, Painter. And I wanted to help her, and Mouse — he would have if there was something he could’ve done, but she was too hurt. She died.”

Painter reached over and put a hand on Wren’s shoulder, and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry. That must have b- must have been terrible.”

Now the hard part. “I think she was someone you know,” Wren said.

“Me?”

Wren nodded. “We didn’t know who she was, not until today. We were trying to find out, but everyone was trying so hard to be careful and not give anything away. We didn’t find out until Miss Rae talked to some of people from the West Wall.” The West Wall was where a lot of the folks who used to live outside had made their camp. “They think her name…” Wren struggled to force the words out. “They think it was Snow.”

Wren saw the confusion on Painter’s face, watched as he slowly made the connection and then started shaking his head in disbelief. His hand slipped slowly off of Wren’s shoulder.

“No, it cuh — no, it couldn’t be her,” he said, not denying it so much as saying there was clearly a misunderstanding. “It couldn’t be. Why would you think that?”

“Miss Rae went out and showed her picture around, asking about her, and a woman said she knew her, but hadn’t seen her in a few days. A woman named Charla.”

Painter’s hand went to his mouth, fingers lightly touching his lips. Still shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any suh- sense.”

“Have you seen her since… the first time?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Nuh… nuh… no. She wouldn’t…” He shook his head again, and looked off to the corner of the room. Remembering, maybe. After a moment, he looked back at Wren. “But I’m sure it’s not her. I’m sure she’s just off, you know… she used to go off on her own, some, some, sometimes for days. Probably just exploring. She luh-luh-luh… she loves exploring.”

“Well, could you come back to the compound with me? Just to be sure?”

“I c-c-can’t, I’m working.”

“I’m sure Mister Sun would say it was OK. It’s your sister.”

“It’s not my sister!” Painter said, sharply enough that Wren flinched. Painter softened. “It’s not my sister, OK? I’m shh… shhh… sure of it.”

There was a tap at the door, and it opened a crack. Mister Sun leaned his head in. “Master Wren, Mister Able says it is time.”

He replied, “OK, I’ll be right there, Mister Sun. Thanks.”

Mister Sun nodded and smiled, but Wren could see the concern on his face as he withdrew.

“You won’t come back with me?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Maybe luh… later tonight, after I finish.”

“I don’t think it’s safe to come alone, Painter. Not at night.”

Painter just shrugged. He wasn’t going to change his mind. And Able was waiting.

Wren nodded. “OK. Well, I’m sorry. I hope we’re wrong.”

“You are, and it’s OK.” Wren nodded again and moved to the door. “I’ll come by in, in, in, a day or tuh — two, OK?” Painter said.

“OK.”

“And Wren?”

“Yeah?”

“Nice hat.”

Wren smiled and tried to force a laugh, but it came out like a lie. “Thanks. See you, Painter.”

“Yep.”

Able was standing at the door when Wren stepped out of the room, looking like he already knew how it had gone. He nodded slightly and put his hand out for Wren’s, and together they left the Tea House.

Wren cried the whole way back.

As they neared the governor’s compound, their path led them by the north-eastern gate and though Wren’s eyes were on the ground, he felt Able’s stride slow and his hand tensed.

“What is it, Able?” Wren asked, out of reflex. Able wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. When Wren followed his gaze, he saw what had caused him to react.

The remnants were strewn all over the street. The gate itself didn’t seem to be damaged at all, though Wren couldn’t tell if anyone had been trying to break into the compound anyway. But what once had been a memorial to those who’d been taken was now little more than a pile of debris smashed against the base of the wall. The wreaths had been pulled apart, the vigil lights stomped on and smashed against the concrete, the various articles of clothing and other personal effects were all torn, crushed, or shattered. And the pictures. The pictures were mostly pulled down and scattered along the street. Some swirled, caught in little eddies of the night air.

Able swung Wren up and carried him quickly towards the main gate. As they headed inside the compound, Wren wondered if his grand idea not to keep extra guards posted was another catastrophe in the midst of unfolding.

Painter stood at the window of his second-story room, biting a towel between his teeth to keep the fear and heartbreak and tears in check. He stared out at the street below, but only saw the look on Snow’s face, with crystal clarity, the moment she had first seen him after he’d returned. The reunion he’d imagined shattered by the horror in her eyes, the stark disgust on her face. For weeks Painter had been telling himself he’d go downstairs to work, and she’d be there, sitting at one of the tables, and she’d apologize, and Snow would wrap her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was alive and OK, and they’d be together again. And now… what if it was true? What if Wren was right? What if his baby sister was gone?

His eyes refocused on the flexiglass window, his faint reflection there staring back at him, staring back with those hellish electric eyes. His hand flashed without thought, fist driving through his own image, through the plate, out into the night air. The flexiglass exploded outward with a sound like a thunderbolt, the sharp crack snapping Painter’s attention back to the here and now. He pulled his hand back in through the window, stretched out the fingers, watched the black fluid welling up around the shards stuck in his knuckles and in the back of his hand. Sharp fragments of what should have been unbreakable. Black ichor that should have been blood. He tugged at the slivers, drew them from his flesh, and wrapped the towel around the wounds. There was pain, but not what he would’ve expected. It was sharp but distant, with a fiery tingle. Already his modified body was reconstructing itself. Modified. Optimized.

Painter inhaled deeply, letting his eyes fall closed, felt the cool night air across his face through the hole in the window. He had been unfair to Wren. Only now he realized how much trouble the young governor had gone to, how much danger he had exposed himself to, just to be the one to tell Painter about Snow. Even if Wren was wrong, he had still taken a risk for no reason other than kindness. If Painter hurried, he might be able to catch up with them.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with Mister Sun at the bottom. Mister Sun caught him by the shoulders, held him upright.

“Everything OK, my friend?” Mister Sun asked.

“Yes, fuh- fuh… yes, fine, Mister Sun,” Painter said. Mister Sun held him fast, the old man’s good hand surprisingly strong on his shoulder. Mister Sun’s eyes searched Painter’s. “Really. I just need to go. I’ll mmm- make up the time tomorrow, pruh- prrruhh- promise.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he nodded, and squeezed Painter’s shoulder, and then let him go. Painter hurried through the Tea House, realizing he’d have to be careful chasing after Able and Wren. He couldn’t draw too much attention to them, after all.

He was lost in thought as he leapt down the stairs in front of the Tea House, and couldn’t quite stop himself in time as he hit the street and ran right into a trio of men, nearly knocking one of them down. Painter reached out instinctively and grabbed the man’s arm to steady him.

“Suh — suh — sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just watch–” the man cut himself off as he looked up into Painter’s face, snatching his arm away roughly. “Get yer stinkin’ hands off me, deadling!”

Painter held up his hands, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry, s-s-sss, sorry, sir.”

The other two men closed ranks, one on each side of Painter, as the one he’d run into drew himself up. He was a good four or five inches shorter than Painter, but about twice as wide, and he had a gap between his front teeth big enough to stick a finger through.

“S-s-s-s-sorry!” Gap-tooth mocked. “S-s-s-sorry, he says. You got a busted mouth, deadling?”

“No, sir–” Painter started to say, but before he could say more, Gap-tooth smashed a fist into his face, and Painter hit the ground, his head bouncing hard against the concrete.

“Ya do now!” Gap-tooth said, and his buddies laughed at that, and one of them took a big step forward and kicked Painter in the gut. The shock wave sent all the breath exploding out of Painter’s lungs and made him choke. Then Gap-tooth was on him, a knee in his crotch, crushing but dull pain; a hand around his throat under his jaw, shoving his head back into the concrete. Gap-tooth’s face was right in Painter’s, his foul breath spilling like kerosene over Painter’s mouth and nose.

He said, “You and yer kind better think hard about where you belong, cause it ain’t here. It ain’t nowhere close to here, you unnerstan’? There’s a storm comin’, there’s a storm comin’, and you and all yer kind are gonna wash away or twist in the wind.”

Painter fought to breathe, his vision mixed with dark spots and bright flashes. And floating images, images of Snow, and his reflection, and the window shattering, and dark things. Dark things that he had done before — before Wren had found him. How easily they had come apart in his hands before.

Gap-tooth reared back and punched at him again, but it was badly aimed and little more than a glancing blow. The man spat and Painter felt the wet spatter on his cheekbone and eyelid and upper lip, and then the weight was gone, and the three men melted away, laughing in the haze of Painter’s stunned and battered mind. After a minute, or five, or twenty, he managed to roll to an elbow and push himself up to a sitting position. The world reeled, then settled to a lazy swirl, and Painter felt bile in the back of his throat and realized his hands were cold and sweaty, and he was shuddering uncontrollably.

He held them up and looked at the palms, torn from the fall. Up his slender fingers. How they trembled. And there, at the ends, graceful glints of steel reflecting the yellow-orange street light and the blue of his eyes. The talons of the Weir, a scant half-inch long and sharper than any blade or razor ever honed by human hands. Elegant. Utterly efficient. Painter couldn’t remember having extended them. But for a brief moment he stared at them, and let himself imagine a different outcome. The tearing of Gap-tooth — the gush and spill as the man’s friends screamed in helpless horror.

No. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t like that. Painter watched as the claws withdrew, settling into their housing beneath his intact fingernails. He was better than that. Better than them. In every way. It was his mercy that allowed them to live, not his weakness.

He pushed himself up to his feet, just as a well-dressed couple emerged from the Tea House. The woman gasped when she saw him, and for a moment Painter took it as a sign of her fear. But her eyes softened with concern as they came down the stairs towards him.

“Oh, Painter,” she said, “are you alright? Do you need help?”

“I’m fff-fff,” the word caught. Such a simple word. Say it! “I’m fine, ma’am. Took the stairs too fast is all.”

The man with her shook his head and produced a handkerchief from his fine coat pocket. The idea of anyone carrying a handkerchief struck Painter as supremely absurd.

“Here, son,” the man said, handing him the handkerchief. “You’ve got some… something, there.”

“Thank you,” Painter said. He wiped the spittle off his face and handed the handkerchief back. As the man took it, they both noticed a dark spot on it, and the man hesitated. “I’m sorry, I’ll cuh- cuh-, I’ll clean it.”

“No, no,” the man said, smiling graciously as he took the handkerchief. “It’s alright. That’s what they’re for after all. You sure you’re OK?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Mmmm- ma’am.”

“Alright. Well. You take care, Painter.”

“You too.”

They smiled again, a little sadly, and turned away towards their home. As they disappeared down the street, Painter reflected on Gap-tooth’s posse and the couple walking away from him now.

And he couldn’t decide which of them he hated more.