Ariel sat on her magic pillow, legs crossed, and waited for her mother. In the quiet of distant rumbling she raised first her left hand and then her right; and, as if by magic, luminescent orbs of pinks and purples materialized, each floating as bubbles held aloft, it seemed, by nothing more than the belief of a young girl's heart."Daddy, come see my magic treehouse." Ariel smiled as if John were looking with admiration over her delicate shoulder. "Do you see the Bucklefinkels? They live in the pink house. And look. Shhhhhhh, be very quiet, the Dinkelberries are sleeping in the purple house and believe me, we don't want to wake them." Ariel giggled and her hands moved quickly as the magic treehouse grew and changed with her every motion."Ariel," called Cait, "who are you talking to?""Daddy," responded Ariel with a wave of her hair and a roll of her eyes as if the question was silly as only adults can be silly. "Who else would it be?""Honey, we don't have time for games. Are you packed?"Ariel put her hands on her hips and the orbs faded. "Like a purple Dinkelberry."Cait smiled. Dinkelberries. Daughter and father, one on lap and one weaving stories from thin air. "Come here Sweetie. Show me those Dinkleberries."Ariel skipped over to her mother coming to a jump stop right in front of her. She clapped her hands quick as lightning and before misty eyes glowed colors bright. And, as if on stage, Ariel stood straight and tall and performed the magic of making memories as precious as royal jewels, or so would be said in thirty years hence.
From darkness to blinding light; from fear to peace; from a cacophony of thoughts to utter stillness. An old friend smiled. Rog smiled back.
Cait refused to look at the Commander.
Nor would she look at Tom."Ariel, go pack what you want. We're leaving."
Kyra opened the door. Darkness looked back. She called into the pit. There was no echo. She looked at Von, "They're not here."
The rain came. It would not stop. Trev pointed the pistol at Sal's head. She didn't move. Without blinking, he pointed the pistol at his head. He pulled the trigger. Voices rang. Boots chattered. Sal stared. Trev was gone.
Trev: Driven by unspeakable shame, he inexplicably heads back to see Sal. Rain slashes his face as a vicious wind whips a steel gray sky. He doesn't notice.Mairi: Unconscious on the cold floor, her head in a small pool of dark blood. She tried to stop Trev from going. He punched her in the face.Emy: Her new found sensitivity to sound is driving her insane. She is currently floating her agitated arse in an isolation chamber. She holds her brooch in her hand, realizes she can no longer see her mother and starts to punch the side of the chamber. No one can hear. Blood drips from her knuckles. She starts to smile as salt stings her open wounds.Cait: Sitting in the study with the Commander and Tom. She has been informed of the circumstances and looks on as the Commander outlines his plan. When the Commander mentions Kyra, Cait stands up and yells, "I will not have that bitch in my house!" Ariel appears in the doorway and all three adults turn in unison toward the small child.Kyra: On her way to Duckhead. She is the plan. She sits in meditative silence on the private transport oblivious to the multi-hued lights flashing by.Von: Refused to take no. He is with Kyra. His left hand has a firm grip on his right. It shakes anyway.Rog and John: Making idle conversation. The Matutinal Mercy has not yet been delivered. The room is ice cold. Neither notice.Yul: Still in hospital. Too high to wonder why. Too low to care.Kieran: Closely watching events unfold.The Unknowns: Closely watching Kieran.
Steps were heard. Heavy boots, leather and metal slapping and clicking against the silent face of smooth worn stone, the pace methodical, the foot porcine but not clumsy. The rhythm of the stride belied one leg longer than the other and Rog wondered how much abuse his jailer had endured by those more fortunate in birth. Thoughts of home, a place where difference was celebrated, flooded his heart. A child of the shells this man would have been. And Rog wondered how this man’s life would have been different, how his fate would have taken a different course on Hyneria. The cell door opened, as these doors were wont to do, with a heaviness felt on the skin as much as heard in the ear. One set of dull dark eyes, standing, took account of two sets wide and bright, sitting. The air felt humid, heavy, and each breath felt as fish must feel in labored exchange of effort for life. The soft water seemed to hang in the air as if air and water were easy neighbors long accustomed to cohabitation and conspiring such that the walls sweated reflective beads of cold fear, walls that knew the souls of many men having met once but never again. They say if walls could talk, but these walls chose not, for some things were better not remembered. No words were uttered as the unbalanced man placed a tray in the center of the cell. He looked again at John and then Rog before backing out of the room and locking the door, the key squealing closure as steps loud became soft until only the sound of labored breathing could be heard.The tray held two thin octagonal glasses with a crimson hued liquid sitting steady at three quarters mark. John spoke first. “The matutinal drink. Mercy in a glass.”Rog held his glass up to the dim light. The liquid seemed to glow, to hum, almost as if alive, as if a thousand tiny voices called forth and demanded obedience. Rog put the glass to his lips—”Put that down,” yelled John.
Crimes of infidelity, as this case was classified, were always presided by a single judge, in red. John stood before the magistrate alone; consul not allowed, records not kept. John spoke. The judge listened from behind the concealment of his hood, his identity forever unknown. Query. Answer. Query. Explanation. And on and on as a river winding through a jungle valley. What was true, what was half true and what was false were not significant. Judgment. To Judge. Now that, that was important. And judgment they would have, and in the streets would be rejoicing, for judgment is what they wanted.
