Elizabeth Hand - Æstival Tide

“Damn,” the boy whispered. He stepped forward cautiously, waving his hands in front of him. His eyes must be getting used to the darkness. He could see faint flickerings of red and orange that made the shadows of things, Nasrani for instance, loom even larger and more forbidding than what they portended. “Nasrani?” he called anxiously.

The exile was bent over one leg, pulling something from his boot. “Just a minute—” he cried, and turned to the boy.

A beam of light sliced through the air, blinding Hobi. He shouted and fell; then cringing waited for the exile to strike. When he dared lift his head he saw Nasrani standing in front of him, adjusting the levels on a lumiere.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nasrani muttered. “Had it all the way up. I always do that here. You expect it to be dark but forget that a little goes a long way. By little I mean light, of course.” The exile waved the lumiere impatiently, its beam now narrowed to the breadth of a finger. “Come on then. Mind the crocodiles.”

Hobi stumbled to his feet, glancing around nervously. “Crocodiles?”

The exile said nothing. Hobi followed him, hoping that by crocodiles Nasrani referred to the ground beneath their feet, which was waffled and beslimed as some great cracked reptilian skin. More than once he stumbled, or teetered swearing on one foot when the ground seemed to give way beneath him. The lumiere served only to point out bits of things—a glittering eye, for instance, that disappeared when Hobi stopped to stare more closely. When he turned back Nasrani and his lumiere were nearly out of sight. The boy hurried after him.

They seemed to be groping down an alley. It stank of sewers and something else, a strange grubby smell. Could it be mud? Hobi paused long enough to stoop and let his fingers touch the ground. It felt soft and damp, and gave way to the pressure of his hand. Maybe the rumors were true, and the Undercity really was the site of the original city, and he was walking on real dirt. The thought made his stomach churn. He shuddered and started walking again.

“Keep close to me here, Hobi.” The exile stopped. He grabbed Hobi by the shoulder and drew him close. Then very slowly Nasrani stepped forward, Hobi trying not to trip beside him. The alley ended abruptly. They took a step down, and another; and then the exile pointed upward.

“There it is,” he said.

Hobi gasped. Above them reared the immense ziggurat that was Araboth. Level after level after level it soared, so far above them that the periwinkle lights of Cherubim and Seraphim twinkled faint as stars and the fires of the refineries could be seen only as fingers of scarlet and gold clawing at the darkness. Gazing upon it like this a horrible feeling took hold of the boy: as though the city were alive and he crouched beneath it, his only hope of survival that the behemoth did not see him there.

“The Holy City of the Americas.” Next to him the exile’s voice rang coldly. Hobi wanted to cry out, beg him to keep silent lest he draw attention to them; but Nasrani went on, his tone bitter, almost cruel. “ Araboth is what the ancients called Seventh Heaven, the city of god. Did you know that, Hobi? But of course you wouldn’t. That is why the Prophets named each level after one of the Divine Choirs. So here you are, looking upon the celestial city. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He laughed, a miserable sound, and swept his arms out. The lumiere’s beam lanced through the blackness until it was swallowed by the void. Hobi opened his mouth but could say nothing, only stare dumbly at the awful vision before him. With a last bitter laugh, Nasrani cried,

“ When all the world dissolves,

And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be hell that is not Heaven.”

Then he stepped forward once more, and Hobi had no choice but to follow.

He walked with his hands held out protectively in front of him, batting at the empty air. They seemed to be walking on the ruins of an ancient avenue. The shadows of crumbling buildings stood to either side, and openings that might be other roads leading into the darkness. There was a heavy stench hanging about it all, a smell that reminded Hobi of the scent that seeped in through the filters, the smell of the sea. But this was stronger, and there was in it too the rank odor of decay, of stagnant water and mildew.

Occasionally sounds echoed down from very high overhead, shrill noises and explosions from the refineries, and what sounded like chanting. From the shadows of the decaying buildings Hobi sometimes heard noises—a sort of slithering sound, like something being dragged across the ground, and once a murmuring like voices. But he saw nothing clearly, only occasional jots of gold, like candlelight reflected from a glass of claret.

“Sorry to bring you around this way,” Nasrani called to him. His voice once more held its accustomed note of playful irony. He seemed familiar with the way. At least he did not stagger and trip against things the way Hobi did, or swear except very softly when something snagged his greatcoat. It seemed they had been walking for a long time now, an hour maybe.

Hobi’s fear faded to a faint though constant anxiety. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “Um, Nasrani—this is—would you mind telling me—”

“What?” The exile turned, the lumiere showing his frown. “Did you say—”

Suddenly the man shouted and fell to his knees. With a cry Hobi reached to help him.

“Nasrani! What is it—”

“I don’t know!” He clutched Hobi’s hand and stood, brushing himself off, and retrieved the lumiere. “There—can you see anything there?”

He pointed the light at the ground. Hobi squinted, shaking his head. Nasrani pushed him forward a little, until Hobi felt the ground give way beneath him. He yelled and lurched against Nasrani.

“It’s a hole! ”

His heart pounded so that he gasped for breath. The thought of a hole down here, where it could plunge into the very core of the earth itself! And Nasrani had nearly pushed him into it! Hobi turned, his voice rising as he swore furiously, but Nasrani only grabbed his arm and shook him hard.

“I wouldn’t have let you fall, Hobi—but it’s there, right? You felt it too?”

Hobi yanked his arm free. He caught his breath, nodding. “Ye-es. There’s a hole there—what’s that mean?”

Nasrani’s voice echoed as he inched forward. Hobi could hear him shuffling carefully to the left. “Here—” he called after a minute. “Come this way, but be careful—”

Hobi edged after him, hugging his arms to his shoulders. He heard loose stones or dirt rattle under his feet and then fall away, the sound abruptly silenced.

“Oh, god,” Hobi muttered; but then Nasrani was gripping his arm and pulling him gently forward, until he felt more solid footing. He fell forward, his hands smacking against a wall as he gasped in relief.

“What does it mean?”

The exile’s voice came very close to Hobi’s face. The boy started, still trying to catch his breath. Something clinked; the lumiere cast its feeble light upon a handful of keys. Nasrani picked out one and held it up to the light. He said, “It means there is a fissure here that was not here yesterday.”

“What?” Hobi shook his head. “A fissure, what do you mean, a fissure?”

“A fissure. A hole, a rift. A break in the earth. Now.”

He raised the lumiere so Hobi could see that they stood in a recessed doorway. The brick walls gleamed damply. Tendrils hung from the corners of the ceiling. When Hobi touched them they felt wet and pulpy, and his fingers smelled of rotting fish.

“I don’t understand,” the boy said uneasily, wiping his hand on his trousers.