I’m getting the hang of the platform I’ve been using to send these emails and post scenes of Outburst. I accidentally sent you an email on Tuesday, but moving forward my plan is to only send you emails on Friday! One day a week you get to frolic with me in your inbox. (No social distancing required. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.)
I might not have been totally clear before, but my plan is to post daily scenes to davidmarkbrown.substack.com while only emailing you once a week. This means if you want to read the scenes on a daily basis, you will have to click over there on your own. (I know, I know. How in the world are you supposed to remember that!?)
If you would like to read on a daily basis, you could try setting a calendar reminder, or use Alexa (Amazon Echo) to gently nudge you each morning, “Here is your reminder: read today’s scene of Outburst by the brilliant, handsome, and insightful David Mark Brown.”
If you would like to read the week’s worth of scenes each weekend, then go do so now! In addition to my rapturous works, I’ll also share other similar bits I think you’ll enjoy. For this week…
Here’s a fun little post-apocalyptic novella by S.A. Hoag.
What happens after the end of civilization? (Well, you’re about to find out!)
After World War Last, everything changed. A tiny refuge, tucked away in the Rocky Mountains, The Vista, has survived on its own.
Team Three - Wade, MacKenzie, and Allen - young, ambitious, and ready to do whatever it takes to protect their home.
Backlash, prequel to The Wildblood series. Set on a near-future Earth mostly devoid of humans, this reveals some of the harsh realities facing people of The Vista, and how Team Three began. When Security faces an unknown adversary that threatens to wreak havoc across what little civilization is left, they must rely on the unusual abilities of a new team, and hope it's enough to stop the chaos.
At the Desk This Week
This week I’ve managed to outline the first episode of Season 3 of the Green Ones. Season 3 is gonna be a bit weird for me due to the fact that it shifts entirely to one of the other parallel universes of the Schism. This means that I’ll be using mostly the same characters, but different versions of those characters. I’m having fun coming up with slight personality differences and straying mannerisms that convey the new identity without slipping too far away from the individual.
I’m having to answer questions such as, “How would having parents affect Calli’s outlook and personality?” How would she treat people differently if she wasn’t used to constantly providing a livelihood for her and Olin? How would she be different if Olin wasn’t even a part of her life? Or didn’t exist at all? These are the fun questions I get to explore when playing around with a multi-verse and dopplegangers!
Outburst: Ep.1, Scenes 4-8
(Click here to start at Scene 1)
Without a word, Neca drapes Olin over his back like a jacket and shoulders his entire weight. I can’t decide if the act is intended as a kindness or a final jab, pointing out the fact I need him. It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausted both physically and emotionally. So for now Neca leads, and I follow.
For several minutes, we trudge through chadzitzin alleys I’ve made a point to avoid. We pass yoalzoah—girls exhausted from leasing themselves out in hopes of becoming pregnant, and thus more valuable in the eyes of society. On the surface, they don’t look any different from me.
We pass male occetahtli, both high class and low. Neca nods greeting to several of them, confirming my speculation he makes a living as more than a psych-fighter. But who am I to judge? If my parents hadn’t left us the garden? If I hadn’t found my mother’s notes and figured out how to make dyes? And besides, isn’t there more to me than being an orphaned, flat-chested, dye-trader?
Reputation is important. Priorities are critical. My father taught me that. Set your priorities, and do what it takes to keep them. That’s exactly what I plan on doing. I just hope Neca is right about there being more to Centavo than his reputation. Because every kindness in the underground comes with strings attached, and connections to a man like Centavo won’t make registering for the academy any easier.
We reach a haphazard complex of adobe apartments piled in the downhill corner of District Four as if a mudslide deposited them there. This is how building additions are made in Worker City—with little consideration for past or future.
“This is the place.”
I nod my head, ready to get my brother somewhere safe, whatever the cost.
“What, no quip about the architecture?”
“My bedroom is a public market during the day.” He nods while appraising me anew. The gesture starts my blood boiling, as if his approval means grease marks from banana peels. To avoid another confrontation I scan the exterior of the building. “Where’s the front door?”
“This way.” Grinning, Neca leads the way toward a set of stairs leading down.
The existence of the basement reveals the building to be genuinely old. Underground construction in Worker City has been reserved for official Masa projects and city defense for over a hundred years.
Again, Neca responds as if reading my mind. “Don’t worry, he’s not that old. But he is the oldest person I’ve ever met. And grumpy too, so for the love of your brother, don’t say anything stupid.”
We enter a long hallway, dimly lit by a strand of electric lights running along the ceiling. Neca turns a sharp corner and descends more stairs before ascending others. I want to ask him if he’s intentionally leading us into a maze from which there is no escape. Instead, I carefully craft an alternative. “Are you sure you don’t need help with Olin? He must be getting heavy with all these stairs.”
“Light as a feather. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” Neca faces me. “Oh, and don’t act like you remember the way out, even if you do. He hates that.”
Slowly, I nod. “Is there some secret greeting I should know of?” I’m half joking.
Neca thinks it over. “Just don’t make any quick movements or try to touch him.”
I can tell he is smiling, but the light is too dim to determine if the smile is ironic or genuine. “Okay.”
Moments later, he stops at the twelfth unmarked door we’ve passed.
Before he can open it, I place a hand on his arm. “All I’m looking for is a safe place to hide Olin while I make more of his medicine.” Neca nods. I chew the inside of my cheek, reopening the wound from earlier. “And maybe a place for both of us. Just until he’s well enough to leave.”
I force myself to relax. “Four days at the very most.” Somewhere deep inside, I’m terrified Olin won’t come back to me. That four days won’t be enough. That I’m about to make a deal with the devil to dictate the rest of my desperate life.
“Neca, I hope you’ve got good reason to invite your new companions into my home, conscious or not.”
The lighting inside Centavo’s apartment is barely brighter than the hallway. The crumbling adobe walls absorb what little light there is. I can’t even see the old man until he turns to face us.
“Totahtzin—” Neca fumbles with the formal title before starting again. “Centavo, I—” he exhales through his nose, “let me introduce you to Calli Bluehair.”
“Ah.” The old man advances on us slowly, pulling a pipe from his pocket with one hand while secreting tobacco from a pouch with the other.
Upon seeing the herb, I realize the room is thick with the smell of it. I know the plant because it grows in my mother’s garden. The lighting of the pipe must be a good sign. Through the corner of my eye, I notice Neca relaxing under Olin’s weight. I suspect Centavo relies on the fragrance to mask the stink of sweat and stale food.
“You will pardon my cold greeting. In the poor lighting that my lifestyle affords, I was unable to decipher the blue hue of your hair.” Centavo puffs three times. Each drag violently threatens to extinguish the match’s flame before allowing it to revive. The dance of shadow and light cast by the burning match reveals a lopsided grin, warmer than I had expected.
Satisfied the bowl is lit, he flicks the match. The gesture seems sloppy until I hear the slight ting of the spent matchstick striking a nearby waste can.
Neca clears his throat.
I interpret this as an indication I should speak. “Oh, uh, Centavo Huehue, it is my honor. Thank you so much for having me into your home.” I catch myself fumbling with my braid and sheepishly return it to the small of my back.
“Certainly. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he says.
I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t already committed the worst possible of insults. He is the one who mentioned my hair. Still, I didn’t have to draw attention to it. Now that I’ve done so, I can’t think of anything else.
I’ve never seen anyone without long hair, and Centavo is as bald as a cantaloupe.
Then again, what had I expected? Citizen status within the walls of New Teo is based on the continuous record of ID burns maintained within the strands of one’s hair. To shave it is the ultimate in rebellion, a total rejection of the authorities. To have it forcibly cut is the highest form of punishment. Without a braid, a person has no rights in the eyes of the government.
Neca nudges me out of my stunned silence by depositing Olin on a cushioned wicker couch.
“I’m sorry, Centavo Huehue, that it has to be under circumstances such as these. But,” I hesitate. This is it, a few simple words and I’ll be entangled. “I need your help.”
“I see. This must be your brother.” The old man slips quietly to the side of the couch, somehow covering the distance with barely a movement. The closer he gets, the smaller I realize he is. From behind the couch, Neca stares at me, perhaps trying to encourage me onward.
“Yes,” I continue with more determination. “He’s been injured. By no fault of our own, it is unsafe for us to remain in plain sight. I need time to brew his medicine.” Carefully I continue, not wanting to insult the old man by implying he’s my last resort. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Centavo whisks a hand to Olin’s forehead. “Injured you say? He appears quite healthy.”
I fumble, not wanting to say too much while also doubting I can hide anything from the likes of Centavo. “It’s his mind.”
Centavo nods and puffs his pipe. “Then it was the two of you at the site of the attack.”
I gasp before quickly confessing, “Yes, we were there, but only as bystanders.”
“Yet you survived. That much was quite fortunate.”
“Not really.” Unsuccessfully, I attempt to suck the words back into my mouth.
Centavo snorts, dislodging a rattle of phlegm in his throat. “Indeed, it was this young man, not fortune, that saved your life.”
At first I wonder if he is referring to Neca. Then I know he means Olin. I swallow blood from the raw spot on the inside of my cheek. “My brother is gifted, yes.”
“He cannot control it.”
“He has medicine. It was destroyed. I need time to make more.” All my urgency spills out. Unchecked telekinesis is just short of outright rebellion in the government’s eyes. “He’ll be fine. He’ll get better, and the two of us will register for Masa Academy in five days. We’ll be out of your hair—” I catch myself too late, having inflicted a sure insult this time.
Centavo ignores my thoughtless comment. “I’ve no doubt your brother will be fine, and in less time than you think. He is not in need of any medication. As you have already said, his condition is one of the mind, and thus can be remedied accordingly.”
Unexpected on multiple levels, his response disarms me. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t imagine so. It’s a cure not readily available to the working class.” He gestures to a matching wicker chair. “Please, have a seat.”
I hesitate. Neca widens his eyes, as if asking me what in the world I’m waiting for. Waiting is exactly what I’m exhausted of. Since it seems imprudent to change course, I sit.
Two chairs form a crescent together with the couch. Centavo offers me the one closest to my brother before taking the other. Neca assumes a position in front of the door, either to make sure I can’t escape or to ensure we aren’t interrupted.
Centavo continues after puffing his pipe. “Do dye traders make a habit of brewing medicines these days?”
“Only remedies I know of.”
“And how does a young dye trader learn such things?”
I’m tempted to tell the old man it is none of his business, but I bite my tongue, literally. “I’m observant of the natural world.”
“After harvesting cochineal from the Ferocactus, how much grape precipitate do you use to precipitate carmine?”
“Cochineal only live on the Opuntia genus.” My victory lasts a second, until I realize he has baited me.
Centavo taps his pipe to his chin. “Why, Calli Bluehair, it appears you have made me look lazy indeed. How long have you known the whereabouts of your mother’s garden?”
I shake my head.
“And her notes, she lied to me about destroying them.” He stands. I raise my hands to defend myself, but he is already strolling toward a desk against the far wall. “We were writing a book together before you came along.” He pulls something from a desk drawer.
My mind spins, churning up Centavo’s every word. I track his movement across the room, desperately seeking explanation for his comments about my mother. I’m able to distinguish a wall lined with books. A corner functioning as a kitchen is littered with dishes and racks of liquor bottles. None of this helps.
“What? No, sorry, I don’t know—”
He tosses a pile of parchment bound with twine into my lap. “I knew your parents. I was there when they were killed.”
These words knock the wind out of me, as if I’ve fallen from a tree and landed flat on my back.
Centavo sits and waits politely for me to recover.
Dizzy, I concentrate on the book in my lap. It’s an unfinished product. I recognize my mother’s script. The bold purple lettering says, “The Divine Garden: Herbal Recipes for a Better Life.” I hover on the word “Divine” for long seconds. It cannot mean what I think it means. Wait, what did he say about my parents? He knew them before they were killed? No. He was there. I lean forward, narrowing my eyes. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
Centavo smiles.
At least I think it’s a grim smile. “I mean, this isn’t the first time we’ve met, is it?”
He shakes his head. “I have tried to stay away, out of respect for your parents’ wishes.” He puffs his pipe. “As you realize, my presence hinders the likelihood of you reaching your full potential via the path you have chosen.”
“You mean Masa.”
“Yes, Masa—the ever-rising dough of the people.” He blows smoke from his nose.
His speech is so subtle I can’t read whether he is being facetious or genuine. But it is hard to imagine a man like Centavo being a true believer in Masa. “You believe there to be another path?” I ask.
“Better than Masa?” He shrugs.
A long silence passes between us. Each lost second makes it more difficult for me to reach my mother’s garden and return inside the shield dome before tomorrow morning’s ID burn. Maybe Centavo plans on holding us here. Could there be something in my mother’s notes more valuable than dye? As much as I hate the thought, I’m sure I would give anything to the old man if it meant saving my brother.
Centavo continues, “I believe the first time you will recall us meeting was at the clinic.”
“You!” I jump to my feet in disbelief. Centavo doesn’t flinch. “That was you! But you had hair.”
The old man wags his finger. “Please, sit.”
Begrudgingly, I do so. But I have already decided if I don’t like what I hear next, I will attempt to kill this man.
“A prosthetic, I assure you.” Centavo runs his hand over his bald head. “Since I can see our time is short, I will cut to the chase.”
I give him no acknowledgement other than a hard stare.
“Your medication, whatever folk remedy you have devised, did not save your brother before. It will not save him now. He is in a state of telekinetic shock.”
I shake my head. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the current has overwhelmed his remaining senses. He is, in a manner of speaking, lost within his own mind. It is rare that someone with such little training has such natural ability. A few simple lessons and your brother will know how to avoid this state in the future.”
“And I suppose you’re the one to give him those lessons? Is that it? You’ll save my brother’s life if he agrees to become one of your playthings?” Instantly I regret the implication that Neca is a toy. The misstep doesn’t reduce my protective instinct for my brother. And that instinct says Centavo is a threat.
“Careful, Calli Bluehair, lest your tongue run away with your reason.” One look into Centavo’s eyes, and I know the tobacco in his pipe is not the only thing smoldering. No matter his reputation, I will not let this man manipulate my brother. He continues, “I would have given your brother his first lesson then, if you had not interrupted us.”
My eyes widen. “You did something to him!” I snatch a discarded skewer with a chunk of shriveled carrot still clinging to it and lunge for the old man.
“Calli, no!”
I hear Neca cry out as the air in front of me solidifies and slams me backward. Before I can crumple against the wall, my tumbling is arrested. For the second time in as many hours I feel utterly helpless. Please, gods, give me a searing pain. Anything would be better than this.
Instead, I slowly turn in the air. Apart from my own will, I return to my chair. Even after I’m seated my muscles remain paralyzed. Centavo clears his throat. He snaps his fingers, and my eyes are able to focus. My fear does not lessen my anger.
“Fine, you are right to be angry. I violated the privacy and sanctity of your brother’s mind without asking permission. It was, at the very least, disrespectful.” He leans forward. “For this overstep—and I want you to listen very closely because I will say this only once—I apologize. Now, if this conversation is to go any further, I request the same in kind for your impulsive attempt to join last night’s leftover carrot with my right eye.”
My jaw and tongue unstick. With considerable effort I swallow the pasty saliva pooling in my mouth.
“Calli,” Neca dares the one word exhortation from his station at the door.
I hear Centavo’s teeth grinding. Clearly the old man could squeeze my brain through my ears and do whatever he wanted to my brother. I hear my father in my head, Choose your fights, Cal. This is not one I can win. “I’m sorry. I apologize for trying to kill you.”
Instantly, my muscles are my own. A brief euphoria sweeps over me. I wonder for the first time if Centavo is telling the truth about my brother’s condition. But I have questions. “Olin got better that same day, the day I chased you from his room.”
“Your brother’s condition was so easily treatable. Your parents would not have objected to such a subtle level of influence. If my involvement were to become public…” he flips the bowl of his pipe upside down and taps it on his hand.
“We would have been put at risk.” That much makes sense. “But wait. You’re saying the logwood tea I started giving him that morning had no effect on his recovery?”
“Logwood tea?” Centavo scoffs. “Is that the boy’s precious medication?”
“Yes,” I stammer, “it coincided with his recovery. And since, I thought—” I huff at the idea of this old man making light of my efforts to nurse my brother back to health. “He’s been taking it every day since, and he’s been just—”
“What?” Centavo interrupts, jumping to his feet. “You’ve been dosing him with logwood tea daily for almost two years?”
Finding my anger again, I stand and confirm my suspicion that I’m several centimeters taller than the old man. “Yes, what of it?”
For the first time since entering Centavo’s home, he touches me physically, gripping my arms. “When was the last dose?”
His proximity stuns me. “I don’t—”
“When, dammit?” He shakes me.
I close my eyes to think. “Yesterday afternoon, two o’clock.”
“And manganese?”
“It’s in the soil, so it’s in the tea.”
“Then it’s no good.” Centavo places an ear to Olin’s lips before shaking his head and pacing the room.
“What? What in gods’ names? Say something.” This sudden panic for someone previously so restrained convinces me I’ve killed my little brother. Me. It’s all been my fault.
Centavo turns on me. “Didn’t you know logwood tea is addictive?”
“Of course it’s addictive. He needed it!” I shout much louder than necessary. “Or at least your meddling made me think he did.”
“Fine, nothing to be done for it now. And you wouldn’t have been completely off, not at first.” Centavo continues to pace the center of the room, talking to no one in particular. “The tea no doubt soothed his rough edges. Logwood absorbs manganese. It would have calmed his residual telekinesis. Not a completely false diagnosis.” He shakes his head. “After that, all it did was bottle up his abilities. I’m surprised he didn’t take half the district with him this morning. He needs control, not suppression.”
I can’t take any more of the old man’s rambling. “So can you help him or not?”
Centavo gathers himself, looks at me, then Neca, then back at me, then at Olin lying unresponsive on the couch. “No, I cannot. Not without risking the lives of everyone in Worker City.”
My heart pounds in my chest. It’s midmorning by the time Neca and I reach the dump.
Neca catches up to me the second I stop inside the workers’ gate. “You’re sure this is the only way?”
“You afraid of a little garbage?” I’m not about to admit the smell would have brought up my breakfast if I had eaten any. “Besides, if Centavo’s plan is half as stupid as I think it is, the dump is the least of our worries.”
“All right, the faster the better,” Neca says.
I stretch my neck for a glimpse of the control tower. I can’t see anyone on the catwalk or behind the glass. Good enough. With a final deep breath through my nose, I dart toward the backside of a mountain of food waste. Even if someone sees us, they might not care. No one is that uptight about garbage security.
The main concern is to avoid piles scheduled for compacting. Masa is in charge of that part, and it’s done with telekinesis. In the blink of an eye, a whole mound of scrap metal can become nothing but a chunk of ore. When Olin and I were little, my parents worked in the yard. My father told me about a coworker who wandered too far during his break. He had misread the compacting schedule, or decided to try to reclaim something of value.
Anyway, it had taken my father and the others eight hours to figure out the general vicinity of his remains. This was the sort of life lesson my father liked to instill in us. The result was to make the dump an instant source of forbidden mystery. Olin and I spent an entire rainy season imagining it as an underwater kingdom forgotten by the annals of time only to be rediscovered by a brother/sister team of renowned explorers.
The garbage piles are an ever-shifting sea, and at one point I loop around the same pile twice. After a few minutes, I locate the fenced-off sinkhole I’ve been looking for.
“This keeps getting better.” Neca has covered his mouth and nose with his collar.
“If you know a better way into the caves—”
“Let’s just do this.”
I’m already hurdling the fence. Three long strides and I’m sliding down a pulpy pile of paper products in varying states of decay. Nothing is dumped here anymore, but plenty of garbage blows into the pit before it’s compacted. Luckily, none of it is too disgusting. Although, there was the one time I landed squarely on the carcass of a decaying vulture. Not my best day.
In a matter of seconds, we’re underground. I lead the way through the system of natural caves to a spot outside the shield dome—the most sacred place in my confined world, my mother’s garden.
Behind me, Neca’s feet fall softly on the smooth floor of the cave. He’s as graceful as he is strong. The fact does nothing to lessen my anger at his presence. There is zero chance I’m leading Centavo’s errand boy to my mother’s garden.
Sure, the trip was originally my idea. That involved me alone making more logwood tea. Now Centavo has me fetching buds from a weed I nearly killed off due to it overgrowing half the garden during the time it took Olin and me to rediscover it.
Centavo had known the plant would be there. He had described it down to its serrated leaflets and sticky resin. He swore he’d never been to the garden, that he didn’t know where it was and didn’t want to. You don’t have to trust me. Hell, I certainly don’t trust you. But you’re taking Neca. Those had been his exact words. When I asked him why, the whole plan got ridiculous.
At least locating a plant in my mother’s garden is something I can work with. Adaptations are inevitable, with plants and with people. So I’ll figure out what to do with Neca along the way.
The hazards of running in the dark force me to slow my pace. I’m intimately familiar with my surroundings, and due to the occasional distant opening, the caves aren’t pitch black. Still, I’m not accustomed to navigating them at high speeds.
Neca sighs in relief.
Calming my urge to punch his chiseled face, I remind myself no real harm has been done. I’ve only shown him an entrance into a maze of caves, an entrance the authorities certainly know of.
Thinking of the authorities circles me back to the one thing that’s bugged me about Centavo since the moment he foiled my attempt to shish kebab his brain. I break the silence. “How is it that Centavo has avoided execution or exile all these years? He’s openly telekinetic, and yet he doesn’t seem to have any security at all.”
“He knows his place. Rule number one of the underground.”
“Oh, really? And what about you? What’s your place, Nightmare Neca?”
He hesitates. “So you’ve seen me fight?”
“No,” I lie. “I’ve seen the posters.”
“Then you know my place. It’s there in the cage. I’m a psych-fighter.”
“You don’t stay in the cage. You don’t live there.”
“Oh, but I do.” His words drip with swagger.
I feel the claws spring out, and I say the words despite not meaning them. “That sounds pretty pathetic.” He’s quiet for several seconds. I hear nothing except our footfalls and breathing. Should I feel guilty? Who else will deflate his super-sized ego?
“What about you, Calli Bluehair? What’s your place?”
I know the answer instantly. “I don’t have one.”
“Well then, maybe we’re both pathetic.”
I don’t agree with Neca’s assessment for one second. To have a place is to act according to the world’s expectations, to fit inside someone else’s definition of who you should and shouldn’t be. That’ll never be me. “You know what I think?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”
“I think Centavo doesn’t have to hide because he’s in charge.”
“Of course he’s in charge. He’s been virtually synonymous with the underground for—”
“He’s an immortal, for gods’ sake.” I shout the words, rousing some bats in the distance. “He doesn’t have to hide from them, because he’s one of them.”
We’ve stopped moving, and Neca leans close as if he has the guts to pound the revelation out of me. “That’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t talk of things you know nothing about.”
I shove him out of my face even though it’s too dark for me to see anything except the whites of his eyes. “Really? How is it he’s a master of telekinesis, at least sixty years old, and not dead from the twitch? There’s not another soul in town who’s lived with the active infection past twenty-five, and you know it. Never.”
“He’s in exceptional health.”
“He lives off of steak and neuhtli by the looks of it.”
“Mexcalli,” Neca sighs. “He drinks mostly mexcalli, not neuhtli. Look, you don’t know him. He’s not some monster preying on helpless chadzitzin.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, Neca seems genuinely rattled. “I’m not saying he is.” I start walking briskly, aware we don’t have the luxury of standing still. “I’m saying he’s an immortal governing the underground from the inside.”
“Fine, maybe he’s an immortal. I don’t know. Even if he is, that doesn’t mean he isn’t one of us.”
“Neca.” I turn and grab him by the shoulders, almost sorry for him. “Think about it. Why would an immortal want to be one of us, unless it was to control us?”
“What do you know about it? You’re the one who’s so desperate to become an ometeotl.” There is real venom in his words. “You’d just as well be one of them.”
I start moving again, this time at a slow jog. “If by ‘one of them’ you mean in charge of my fate, yes. If you mean refusing to give up and die, yes, I choose to be one of them.”
“Now it all makes sense.”
“What?” I do my best to slap Neca with the word.
“The way you look at me. The way you talk about chadzitzin. You think we’re all quitters.”
Well, of course I do. Doesn’t Neca? How else could anyone possibly see them? Lazy, undisciplined, thrill-seeking quitters who would rather live a short, selfish life and die from the twitch than put in the hard work to ensure a future society and the possibility of a future for themselves. I don’t say any of this out loud. Instead, I resume my defensive posture. “What?”
“Nothing, just an observation. Besides, aren’t we getting close to this garden yet?”
We’ve still a ways to go, but the question reminds me of my earlier train of thought. “About that,” I reach into my pocket and clutch the smooth, elongated rock I’ve been carrying since the sinkhole. It’s small enough for me to curl my fingers around yet heavy enough to compensate for my girl-like upper-body strength. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
“What?”
In one swift movement, I spin and punch him in the side of the jaw. Never once knocked out in the cage, Nightmare Neca turns out to be human after all. Catching him under the arms, I ease him to the cave floor and prop him up as comfortably as I can. There’s no way I’m taking him to my mother’s garden, but I need him for what comes next.
I shiver just thinking about it. Ridiculous. Impossible. When Centavo looked me in the eyes and told me we’d have to sneak into Immortal City, I knew without a shadow of a doubt he was one of them. What I can’t figure is his interest in me and my brother.
I pick up my pace for the final stretch of cave. At its cavernous mouth, I’ll find the spring-fed garden planted by my mother. An overland route uses a slot canyon to access the small valley where the garden is nestled. But it takes three times as long and leaves one exposed to lines of sight from New Teo, as well as wild animals and roving gangs of twitchers. In the caves, the worst threat is vampire bats.
I flex my sore knuckles. After all Neca’s done to help, I feel bad about punching him. As a psych-fighter, he should be used to it. On the other hand, getting sucker punched by a girl isn’t exactly a cage bout. Briefly I worry he’ll refuse to help, but he’s put up with so much already. If he wasn’t so cocky, he might be a nice guy.
Then there’s Centavo and how Neca gushes at every mention of the old man. Centavo’s connection to my parents bothers me most. I can think of a dozen different scenarios: he was blackmailing them, they were blackmailing him, they were working together (but on what?), he and my mother were having an affair (not likely). Maybe they simply shared a common interest in plants. Or he wanted my brother for his abilities, and my parents refused.
This last one chills me to the bone. What if he’d been trying to take my brother the night of the outburst that killed my parents? And then he came back for him at the clinic? None of that explains the book. He showed me the pages they had done together—my mother’s words and his art.
As the cave slopes down, opening into the garden, I’m still wondering why the simple collaboration means so much to me. I slide down a slick section of rock. Landing on spongy moss, I stop to inhale the lush fragrances of jasmine and honeysuckle. The truth hits me.
Beauty was paramount in everything my mother did. I close my eyes, overwhelmed by memory. I’m a little girl sitting at the kitchen table. My mother kneels behind me, working her magic into my braid and teaching me. Ask yourself before you do anything: Will it make the world more beautiful? If the answer is yes, and the thing is within your ability, you’re obligated to try.
I open my eyes. This garden is living proof. I’m living proof. Olin, at least for the time being, is living proof. I scamper past the ferns and into the larger section of the garden. Over the last sixteen months, I’ve memorized every plant. Within seconds, I’m holding in my quivering hand the leaf Centavo described.
It doesn’t look like much, but my mother planted it here. That is all I need to know. If she shared the knowledge of it with Centavo, there must be something beautiful about him as well. This one fact is not enough for me to trust him. It’s enough for me to trust his plan.
I pluck three ripe buds oozing with resin, wrap them in a large leaf, and stuff them in my pants pocket. Behind a hedge of cleyera, the ceiling of the cave converges with a rock shelf to create a narrow, horizontal cleft. I shimmy into the crack and breathe out. Reaching as far as I can, I tweeze a leather pouch between two fingers.
Sitting on the edge of the shelf, I hold the package on my lap. The leather is beautifully worn and oiled. I rub my fingers across its surface and hold them to my nose. Surprised, I discover the leather is seasoned with the resin from the ugly plant. I wonder how much more my mother has yet to teach me.
Untying the pouch, I flip through the pages until I find the one I’m looking for. My mother never sketched the ugly plant. As Centavo suggested, she had taken notes so rushed and disjointed I failed to correlate them until now.
Near the top of the page she describes the resin. Midway down, a string of unfamiliar numbers and symbols form some sort of equation. I spot something else, an insertion scrawled in my father’s hand. Nowhere else in the notes does his writing appear. On this one ugly plant they worked together.
My heart leaps. Something is special about the ugly plant after all. Centavo has to be telling the truth. The old man could kill Olin by simpler means than this. And if he’s really entrusting me with his contact within Immortal City, I can trust him with this ugly-looking plant.
I slip the notes into the pouch and return it to its hiding place. When I stand, I’m too dizzy to walk straight. I realize I haven’t eaten in over sixteen hours. Foolishly, I didn’t bring water either.
Raindrops slap the broad leaves of the garden outside the shelter of the cave, and I realize it must be afternoon. Urgency crowds me. Centavo wasn’t sure how long it would take his contact in Immortal City to brew the medication. He also wasn’t sure how long Olin would last before destroying Worker City in a telekinetic storm of unfathomable power. Menacingly, the old man had asserted he wouldn’t let that happen.
In less than a minute, I’m hurrying back the way I came, burdened with spring water and fresh papaya. With any luck, the simple offering, along with my humble apologies, will buy Neca’s forgiveness. I make a mental note to stop taking my frustrations out on him. Hopefully, he hasn’t been awake long enough to stew over my hitting him, or to have gotten lost.
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