19 Quattris 1043

    The Magister bent his silvery head toward the circle of High Minds.  They looked at him, not needing to speak or nod. “Come, Captain,” he said.

    A younger man in uniform entered from a side door and bowed to the group, murmuring, “Good thought, Mi Domini.”  The Magister  pointed to an armchair in the center of the circle. The soldier sat down, deferential but unimpressed. Was the Magister’s wife not his own grandmother?  The High Minds joined hands. Captain Jean Rossignol-Leveq closed his eyes and opened himself to their investigations.  Sun sliced through the crystalline roof of the Focus, warming his golden hair. By the time he regained full consciousness, the rays had moved to leave all in shadow but for a crescent-shaped sliver of light against the far wall. The Magister spoke unsmilingly, “Thank you, Captain. We have some questions.  I will record them and your answers for the public register.” A small red light came on overhead. “Would any of you care for a refreshment before we begin? Coffee, orange juice, water?”

     When the waiter had left the room, the Magister began, “So, we lost fifteen men, but killed 150 and captured 321 of them, if I remember rightly. Any females of child-bearing age captured?”

     “Yes, that’s the correct count. Young females? Only about ten.” Leveq answered calmly.Their ultimate disposition would not be his responsibility.

     “And the attitude of the captives?”

     “Still defiant, still preaching and demanding we adopt their ways. Their convictions are unshakeable. Disband the Focus, take up the Jesus religion, and adopt their type of government.”

     “Such unreasonable expectations. We shall do nothing of the sort.” The Magister raised his voice. “They’d be less the miserable bunch of villains they are if they had a Focus and a Commonality of their own.”

      “Si! Si! Yes! Yes!” came the chorus of replies.

      “How dare they call us evil!” someone shouted.

      “So filthy and disgusting!” another voice cried.

      “And hypocritically self-righteous!” someone added angrily.

      “You forget,” the Magister interjected, “that they are human, despite their faults. Likewise..."

      “We know, we know. Our men have married them. But only after they were changed.”

      “True. Captain Rossignol-Leveq, How many male prisoners total now?”

      “About five hundred.”

      “And you are holding them where?”

      “In an old hangar at Normont.”

      “I know we’ve destroyed their ports. How long since the last of them arrived?”

      “Almost a year.”

      The Magister nodded. “If you wish, you may leave us now,” he suggested, but when Jean shook his head, his name-grandfather merely looked around the circle. “I suggest we do with these as with the last bunch.”

      The youngest High Mind objected. “Must we?”

      “We ruled out other alternatives last time, I do believe. Is there anything else now, or shall we disband?”

      “Partissios. Let us disband,” several voices said.

      “Very well. It is decided,” declared the Magister, “and may this be the last of our unwelcome visitors.”    

13 Novembris 982 and After

 Michael Escapes And Reaches Heaven

    What did “kill” mean? Was “dead” like “hurt”? The words had a bad feel to them, like curses before a blow. Blood seeped from cuts on his back and bottom. He hurt, but he always hurt. The Bad Thing, the man driving, was going to “kill” him. Thinking about it made the Bad Thing happy. Now and then it turned its head, smiling in anticipation of  “kill” and “dead”. The boy rested his bruised cheek against the cold glass, and watched wet roofs slide by below---yellow, orange, green, a bright carpet for a rainy day. Other cars went by, passengers’ heads dark lumps inside. Mountain slopes bristled with trees, like hair on the Bad Thing’s arms. Most were leafless, others always green. Autumn snow, a hat of white on the peaks, barely touched the tree line. No matter how frightened he was, he couldn’t help looking at this world he had never seen before.

     He planned to jump out and run as fast as he could when the car touched down, to get away from the Bad Thing. The car doors were locked but, when it got near enough to the ground, they would open on their own. He had learned this from the thoughts of people outside The Room, and used it, and other things, to figure out how to free himself. On this very day, he would leap into the unknown, take his chances, escape or die.

     A long time ago—he couldn’t remember when—he found that peoples’ thoughts and feelings came to him by some immaterial sense. Controlling that sense, sending it out to touch other minds came later, difficult at first, now effortless, a motor function like breathing or swallowing. The Bad Thing—and he himself, Michael—could block their thoughts, keep things secret. But nothing stopped him from understanding intent. He thought the Bad Thing could not, or he would know what his victim planned.

    The servant who brought his food had given him more soup and bread after feeling the pity Michael sent into him. The same man had thought something once about “the child being almost three”. From then on, the boy recorded the passing of each winter on the floor under his mattress. By age five, he could pry unnoticed into ordinary souls, and so learned about a place called “school”, which lots of children hated, but where they had to go. There happened to be a man living nearby whose job it was to make them go there. His mind lay open, trusting to the goodness of any proper Mind to avoid intrusion. This desperate and unaware young member of  that caste, knowing nothing of the rules that curbed powers like his, prodded this man into investigating why a certain boy, who lived in the white house on the ridge, wasn’t in school.

    Michael couldn’t know what, if anything, would happen next. On a morning when the Bad Thing crashed into the Room, cursed, slapped him, hit him over and over with a stick—these routine events caused him ordinary, everyday misery.  Oh, but being dragged out through the blowing cold rain to the car constituted an unimaginable, incredible event, a shock of excitement and terror to his whole being. Drenched in anxious sweat, stinking of blood and excrement, he cooled his hot face against the window, hoping he was on his way to “school”, devouring with his eyes what he thought of as paradise on the other side of the glass. During the last three years, he had become so used to pain that nothing he felt now could mar his enchantment with each glimpse of this new reality, not even the autumn rain, mixed with sleet, tatting icy lace on the upwind panes.

    He felt the car going down. The time had come. Tense, ready, he took his chance when a sudden crosswind made the Bad Thing struggle to hold the car steady while it pitched and yawed and tilted toward the ground. He opened the door next to him, tumbled onto gravel, jumped to his feet, and ran toward a building he could see through the trees. If he dared look back he would have seen a landing skid bend, the car settle lopsidedly, its driver scramble out and pursue him but soon give up. If the Bad Thing hurled a telepathic snare at  Michael as he ran for his life from that devil out of hell, it failed to catch him.

     Inside the school building, Bran bounced a ball against the wall of his room to annoy his next-door neighbor. Books lay open on his desk; boring, stupid books. Good thing he roomed alone. Who would share a room with someone like him? In his person he delighted the eye; tall, thick blonde hair tied with a ribbon and hanging to his waist, wide blue eyes, clean face, hands, nails, clothing, all tidy and neat. His habits failed to correspond to his appearance. The odors of uneaten food gone bad, and bedclothes too long unchanged lingered in the room. Feet unstuck themselves from the floor with a gritty, sucking sound. The bathroom, that pit of scum and lost hairs, appalled even him. He wanted it that way. Filthy surroundings were his private mark of possession. Let the cleaning people do their best. In hours he’d spread grime around him again.

    Someone pounded on his door. He’d forgotten to lock it, and the pounder, the boy against whose wall the ball  thumped, entered with a loud, “Cut that out, will you, Leveq? You’re driving me insane!”

    “Haven’t far to go, either, have you?” Bran smirked, throwing the ball again, harder.

    The other boy shouted, “We all hate you, Leveq!  Don’t you care?”

    “Look, I’m awfully bored, see? I have to do something, like bounce this ball, so get lost, and shut the fucking door behind you!”

    His neighbor departed, slamming the door, stomping down the hall, probably to snitch to the Dean again, for all the good it would do.  He stopped throwing the ball. Nobody to annoy now.

    “Bran Leveq, the Dean wants you at the porter’s station immediately.” The com startled him. With a shrug, he sat down and opened a book, then got up and reached for his jacket. His father had been angry enough after his last conversation with the Dean to give him no pocket money for a month. The memory forced him to go find out what the old fool wanted. Wearing a sullen frown, he buttoned his jacket and went.

    Feigning nonchalance, he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the smell of vomit in the porter’s little room at the front door. No one there looked at him. The  porter, an older student; the infirmarian, Demita Ricci; Dean Robarder, balding and bespectacled, all bent over, attention fixed on something he couldn’t see. He heard the Dean say, “My boy, everything’s going to be all right now. Nobody will hurt you.  Bran, come here please.” 

    “Oh, shit, now what?” He nearly said it, but swallowed the words at the sight of a little boy half-hidden behind the Dean.

    The latter glared at him meaningfully. “Leveq, this is your new roommate. We think his name is Michael Rossignol. We aren’t expecting anyone else, so...”

    To forestall anticipated objections he continued hastily, “...the two of you will have a tower suite. No, your fees won’t go up. I want you to help Michael, if that’s his name, adjust to school.  He looks to have had a bad time of it.” As flustered as Bran had ever seen him, Robarder urged the boy forward.

    Michael Rossignol, for indeed that was his name, had curly hair radiating wildly from his small head, and one eye black and swollen in a face covered with bruises. He hung back as determinedly as the Dean pushed him forward. “Michael—I shall call you that unless informed otherwise. Bran Leveq will be your roommate and help you learn to get along here.” 

    Bran dare not laugh at the notion that he would, or could help anyone learn to get along anywhere.

 “’Lo, Michael,” he said, looking down at the ravaged face. No athletic ability here. What did he do to deserve this? To be honest, a whole lot of things. Michael put out his hand. Bran unthinkingly took, then dropped it, wincing. “Don’t,” he said. The kid had put out a psychic feeler, stirring a peculiar sensation in what Bran thought might be his heart. How rude. How not done. He hated it. Sweat beaded along the kid’s hairline. His hand, rudely rejected, had been icy with fear. Maybe that mental stroke helped him feel safe; he’d learn the rules soon enough, wouldn’t he?

    Michael, who could perhaps speak, but didn’t, kept his eyes fixed on the gilt strands of Bran’s hair. “Which tower suite? And who’s going to move my stuff?” Bran demanded of the Dean, taking advantage of the situation.

    “Northeast corner, third floor. Your belongings will be there before you are.”

    “Umm... C’mon Rossignol, let’s go. By the way, you stink...” He also limped stiffly, like an old person with bone disease. “Don’t cry,.” Bran muttered. “Cut it out, will you? Come on, I’ll carry you.”

    Later, Bran reviewed the results of his efforts of the past two hours. At first the scissors frightened Michael. He snipped off a tiny bit of his own hair to show they didn’t hurt, then hacked off almost all the tangled curls. The filthy clothes, glued to scabbed skin by serous oozing, stuck to Michael’s back until softened by a spray of warm water from the shower. After peeling them off, he washed the kid’s hair, face and neck with a soft soapy cloth.  The subject of these ministrations surprised him by taking the soap and washing the lower part of his body, lifting one foot, then the other to clean between his toes. 

    After that, Bran demonstrated use of the toilet. His audience of one had used a bucket as long as he could remember, and now watched closely as his urine sizzled and vanished. But he said nothing, not a word the whole time they were together, not even when Bran dabbed ointment on his torn back.

    “Now,” Bran muttered, mostly to himself, “what next? Oh, I know. The nails. Stand still, kid. This won’t hurt, I promise.” He trimmed the once filthy, now clean, nails. “Turn around. I need to comb your hair. Look, look at yourself in the mirror. You look a lot better than when you got here, don’t you?”

    The mirror! Michael saw his face for the first time, gasped, touched the glass, grimaced and stuck out his tongue. Bran laughed. “Yeah, that’s you, Mica. Your very own face. Now, the comb…”

    He stuffed the ragged clothes down the trash chute, and rummaged through his wardrobe for something Michael could wear, making a mental note to see the Dean early tomorrow about clothes and boots. Meanwhile, he found boots and some underwear he’d outgrown and saved for his cousins. They fit loosely. One of  his old athletic shirts made a knee-length tunic on the spindly body.

    In the end, he felt himself a clever nine-year-old and something unfamiliar—a kind one, too. His stomach growled. They had missed dinner by hours. “So,” he pondered aloud, “are you hungry, Mica? You know. Food?  Eat?”

    “Eat,” echoed a tiny creak. “Eat.”

    “You can talk! Good fellow!”  

    Michael hung his head at the outburst, but when Bran put out his hand and said, “C’mon. Let’s find some food,” he took it and followed  obediently.

    The way to the kitchen led along hallways dimly lit by night-lights. Floorboards squeaked a rhythm to their steps as they passed closed doors behind which boys studied or slept. Colored lift markers rose in columns from a dark landing at the head of the stairs. Bran stepped into the red column and floated to the floor below, but Michael refused to follow him and took the stairs one at a time, two feet to a tread, holding on to the banister.

    This school allowed boys to snack between meals in the time between 23rd hour and 2nd hour. The night cook sat reading under a lamp in the kitchen. When he saw them, he stood, tied on an apron, and turned on more lights. The two boys soon found themselves seated at a table while the cook put bread and reheated leftovers in front of them; yellow fried apples and salty brown slices of vegetable matter called “meat”, chewy brown bread and thick saffron “butter” to dip it in. A plate of crisp, sweet wafers and a pitcher of cold water completed their snack.

    “Don’t eat so fast; you’ll make yourself sick,” Bran warned, unwittingly mimicking his aunt Elisha. “You eat like a starving person.  Don’t stuff your mouth. Chew each bite ten times.” He started nibbling at his own food and sipping water. Michael, a starving person, tried to obey, but anything Bran didn’t eat, he snapped up, chewing obediently, swallowing hastily, assuaging years of hunger.

    When they finished, Bran said, “Tired, Mica?” Michael nodded, eyelids drooping, sleepy from a full stomach.” Well, come on, then. Let’s go up to bed.” They thanked the cook and went back through the shadowy hallways. This time Michael let the shaft of green light lift him up.

    All the rest of his life, he remembered that first night at school; clean body, clean clothes, warmth, hunger gone—simple pleasures, wonderful to him. When he woke up crying in the night, Bran lifted the covers and let him climb in bed with him. Old happy memories, faded to a dim dream of lost paradise, revived here, and he felt as secure as he once had with his nurseman. Awakening during the night, he opened out and inspected his mind to find yesterday’s mental landscape obliterated from the center of his being by comfort and safety. Those were enough for now.

    He brushed doubt away and gave himself up to the magic of it: the soft beds and blankets, the magical bathroom with its warm rain and bucket that sent what he did in it up in smoke, the tapping of autumn’s first snow on the tall uncurtained windows, the lingering taste of fruit on his tongue, Bran’s regular breathing, and silky hair smelling of soap against his face. What would happen tomorrow?  Exactly what did happen at school?  Surely beatings never happened here. Who was the man with spectacles and no hair who gave him to Bran?  How often would they let him eat?

    He drifted off to sleep, alive at last.

    Next morning their breaths blew white in the cold room. Outside, the sun shone on a glittering world of icicles and snowdrifts. Bran jumped out of bed, punched a button, dove back in and pulled the blankets tightly around them both. “Good thing we don’t have to get up yet. Too cold!”

    A tiled panel set in the wall made popping sounds, loud at first, dwindling to barely audible ticks. “There we go. Getting warmer.”  He laughed, snuggling against Michael. “It makes that noise because when it heats up it gets bigger? See?” Michael shook his head. He didn’t see at all.

    Of course they fell back to sleep, but woke up with a start when the com blared: “Bran, Bran Leveq this is Secretary Danieli. The Dean wants you to take Michael Rossignol to the infirmary after breakfast then come to his office before class. Do you hear?”

    “Yeah. I hear you. Come on, Mica. You can have the shower first.” Receiving a puzzled look, he added, “What you called ‘warm rain’. That’s the shower. C’mon. Up you go.”

    Breakfast was served at long tables where dozens of boys ate, drank, and made noise. Michael gulped down everything put in front of him and most of Bran’s porridge, too. Dropping his spoon, he burped.  Bran frowned. “Burping is rude. You shouldn’t do it around other people.” Michael’s mouth opened in astonishment. Bran sighed and held out his hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”

    At the infirmary he tried to free his hand, but Michael tightened his grip and whimpered, “No, no...”

    “Listen, Michael. Demita Ricci takes care of people who are sick or hurt. All new boys have to be checked over to make sure they’re healthy and don’t have germs.”

    “I don’t. No germs.” Michael wailed. “Stay with you. Yes?”

    “No.  No you can’t. You have cuts and bruises all over your body. You have to stay here and I have to see the Dean, understand?  At school we’re supposed to do as we’re told. Be good now and go with the demita. Let go of my hand. That’s the way. Go on. I’ll see you at lunch, I promise...”

    Michael let go and took a step toward the infirmarian with her lank brown hair and soft voice. She waved Bran away and held out her hand. “I’m just getting ready to have a piece of toast. Would you like some, too?” After considering a moment, he nodded and took her hand.

    Bran felt unusually confused. His opinions tended to be black or white, never the least grey. No, he didn’t want to be with Michael all the time. Couldn’t bear the idea. He had promised himself never to care about anyone. Now, simultaneously and contradictorily, he felt concern and even affection for this kid, and began to recognize their reciprocal need of each other. He entered the Dean’s office, a thoughtful frown in place of the usual sneer.

    “Sit down, Bran. Have you had breakfast?” The bald man in spectacles spoke gently.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “How are you doing?” The headmaster ventured a smile as he spoke.

    “I guess I’m fine. No, I really am, Dean Robarder.”

    “Good, good. And Michael? What do you think about him? How is he?”

    “He doesn’t say much.  He’s too scared. He wants to hang on me all the time. I guess it makes him feel safe.” It came tumbling out. “Dean Robarder, somebody beat him really, really bad a lot of times. Looking at his back makes me sick. It has bloody ridges all across and pus oozing out. Who could have done that to him? I think it must hurt terribly.”

    Robarder shook his head in disgust. “How cruel to do that to a little boy! Despicable!”     

    “He doesn’t have clothes or boots or a toothbrush. I mean his parents can’t take him away after what they did to him, can they?  If they try we’re gonna run away and hide until we’re grown up.”

    The Dean sighed. “No. I will start legal proceedings to keep him here until he’s of age. The law permits that when a child has been abused or neglected.” He had dealt with more than one such case in the last four years. “I shall ask Demita Ricci to take him shopping for the things you mentioned that he needs. So, you worry about Michael, do you?”

    “I can’t help it. He’s defenseless. He doesn’t have anybody but me.”             

    “I’m glad you feel that way. He really does need you.” 

    “Yeah. Uh-huh. Right.” A glare told the Dean he’d been too sentimental.  

    “You won’t have to run away, I promise you that. Is there anything else we should talk about now?”

    “No.” Bran fidgeted, shuffling his feet.          

    “I want you to come and talk to me about Michael from time to time. I’d like to hear how he’s getting along, if he has any problems and so forth. Will you do that?” 

    “Yeah. Sure. I mean, yes, I will, Dean Robarder,” he added in a fit of politeness.

    “Very well then. Go along to class now.”

    Bran hurried to the dining hall as soon as the gong rang for lunch.  Even before he turned the corner, he heard edgy voices jeering, the clamor of a young mob. He had half expected this. Behind a group of onlookers, three of the worst bullies in the school had Michael pinned in a corner, blocking his escape, bumping him, stepping on his feet, spitting at him. “Get outta my way,” Bran sputtered, elbowing and shoving, grabbing the closest tormentor around the waist and sending him sliding across the floor. The other two, both older and larger, tried to pummel him. He ran at them head first, knocking the wind out of one, getting a hard punch in the chest from the other. Michael took hold of one assailant’s wrist, giving Bran the chance to send him spinning before his accomplice could recover. “Let’s go,” he said, collaring Michael, pulling him into the safety of the dining room. Angry, hot, he took a deep breath to calm himself. He itched to keep fighting, but dared not.

    A monitor approached and asked him what happened in the hall. “Just a little disagreement,” he managed to reply. This wasn’t serious enough to violate the no-snitching code, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he’d take on the same bullies.