John Hawks - The GoldenCity

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.

“Three must be,” Michael said, and everyone smiled. Verga knelt in front of the dead man and began to pull off his boots. Two women left the group by the fire and removed the suicide’s hat, clothes, belt and knife. These possessions were placed at Michael’s feet, and the youngest woman smiled shyly.

The dead man’s boots and clothes smelled moldy, but they fit. By the time Michael was dressed, the naked thief had been cut down, and Verga had used his knife to snap open the silver clasp and remove the suicide’s red collar. As the others rolled the body into a shallow ditch, Verga fit the collar around Michael’s neck and forced the clasp back together. The collar was smooth, but fairly heavy; it felt like a thick strip of plastic. Michael wondered if it was an electronic tracking device or just a mark of servitude.

Everyone worked quickly to cover the dead man with branches and brush. When they were done, Michael followed them through the undergrowth to the waterfields. Three of the machines they called “wet crawlers” were a half-mile away, grinding toward the levy. The largest of these machines looked like a crazed mechanic’s amalgamation of a farm tractor and an old-fashioned locomotive. It had a pair of large wheels in back and a smaller single wheel in front, a long cylindrical body and a black box like a riverboat wheelhouse on top. A black cloud of smoke puffed from a red smokestack and drifted across the water. Two smaller machines that looked like dump trucks with three wheels were on opposite sides of the main crawler-meek attendants for a roaring dragon.

Michael touched the handle of the dead man’s knife. He had been expecting a high-tech world that looked like a cinematic version of the future. Where were the talking robots and massive skyscrapers that glowed like crystal spires? Where were the space vehicles floating down from the heavens and gliding into some vast loading dock?

He realized that the wet crawler would destroy the stick marker he had left in the water. If he lost the passageway, then he would be trapped in this primitive world forever. Trying not to look nervous, he approached Verga.

“Where are we harvesting today?”

“Just follow the tips of your boots.” The old man motioned to the area directly in front of them.

Michael pointed in the direction of the passageway. “Are we also going over there?”

“Three suns gone. Three suns come.” Verga said as if this phrase answered the question.

“We guardians don’t speak the same way,” Michael told him. “We’re harvesting here until darkness and then-”

“Three suns gone,” Verga repeated.

While they were talking, the other harvesters had fastened the top part of their boots to their belts. Now their legs were protected from anything swimming in the water. When the wet crawlers were about fifty feet away, they began to make slow turns in the water. One servant controlled each machine while boys tossed chunks of fuel into fire boxes and adjusted the valves.

Verga slapped Michael on the shoulder as if he had just joined a football team. “From now on, you’re ‘Tolmo.’ That was the thief’s tag.”

“What if someone asks about him?”

“They don’t care about our faces. That’s as clear as the boots I’m standin’ in. Only the gods watch our lives.”

The harvesters clutched their knives as if they were going to climb onto the crawler and kill everyone onboard. The machinery squealed and chugged and spat little jets of steam. Suddenly, Verga reached into the water and pulled up a green, pumpkin-size plant still attached to its leafy vines.

“This here’s a spark. Don’t know what you guardians call it. Now you want to take your knife and cut right around the base root. Trim the side vines off and toss your harvest into the feeder.” He picked up a smaller plant. “Now this one is still growing. And this one…” Verga grabbed Michael’s hand and pushed it below the surface so he could feel a large, smooth object. “That’s a mother plant. We leave that to birth the next measure.”

“I understand.”

“Slow and steady wins the day. Don’t cut your leg with your blade.”

“There are creatures in the water. I got bit.”

A few people laughed, and Verga tugged down the brim of Michael’s hat. “If a finner starts chewin’ on you, just let me know. He’ll end up in the pot.”

Now that the main crawler had stopped, Michael could see the equipment attached to the back of the machine. A metal frame held a long conveyer belt that was only a few inches above the water. The horizontal belt fed the harvested spark to a vertical wire tube with a screw device revolving inside. Once the spark reached the top of the tube, it could be directed into the hoppers carried by the two auxiliary machines.

“May the gods reward us,” Verga prayed. The harvesters drew their knives. Steel poles extending from the conveyer belt established twelve separate work areas. If Michael hadn’t substituted for the dead man, it would have been immediately clear that someone was missing. The loud noise from the machinery and the shimmering space of the waterfields was almost overpowering. For a moment, Michael wanted to turn away and slosh his way back to dry land.