Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

“Here you are, my friend,” he said, pulling a chair out for Wren. “Dreamtime as usual? Excellent, and for Father?”

We need to see Painter, Able signed.

“Two Dreamtime, very fine, very fine.” Mister Sun nodded. He bowed slightly, smiling all the way, and drifted easily towards the back room. “My friend, drink up and go home before Wife comes to find you!” he said to some regular at another table, earning a good-natured chuckle. He disappeared through a swinging door.

Wren kept his eyes on the table in front of him, drawing little figure eights with his index finger on the smooth, polished surface. Trying to think of what to say, how to say it.

A few moments later Mister Sun glided up to table with a tray balanced expertly on the back of his withered left hand, a small pot and two matching handleless mugs upon it. As he arranged the items on the table with his other hand, he leaned closer to Wren, as if listening intently.

“To see how we blend?” he said. “Of course, my friend, of course, if it is OK with Father?” Able nodded, and held up five fingers. “Five minutes. Yes, yes, come with me.” And Mister Sun stepped back, took Wren’s hand, and led him casually back to the back room, conveniently shielding Wren from the other customers by bending in front of him, talking the whole way. “I think you will find it very interesting, my friend, very interesting, and you can surprise Mother with what you learn. Unless Mother isn’t supposed to know!”

Mister Sun shepherded Wren through the swinging door and into a little side room, where Painter was already waiting for him.

“Thanks, Mister Sun,” Wren said.

“Of course, Master Wren, anything and everything for you, always.” He bowed a little, and then stepped out and closed the door to the room, leaving Wren and Painter together.

“Hi, Painter,” Wren said.

“Hey, Wruh- Wruh- Wruh…” Painter said, struggling to get his mouth around the words. He shook his head once, hard, like he was trying to crack his neck. “Hey, Wren. How’re things?”

Wren shrugged and looked at the floor. No reason to lie about it. “Not so great.”

Painter nodded. “Because of that Council mmmm-meeting?”

“Sort of. And other stuff.”

Painter nodded again, and the two stood in silence for a moment.

“Painter, I have to tell you something.”

“OK.”

“But before I tell you, I have to ask you to promise you won’t tell anybody else.”

“Alrrr- alrrrr…” the word caught in his mouth. Painter stopped himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Alright.”

“It’s really important that nobody else finds out, OK? Like, really important.”

“I won’t tuh…” Painter fought another word out. Wren waited patiently. “…tell anyone.”

“OK. Well. OK. The night before you and Luck… you know, before you came to visit. Something happened. At the compound.” Wren felt a rush of adrenaline, the memory of the attack freshly renewed, now with new dreadful significance. Painter remained silent, attentive. “Someone got in. A girl. And she tried to… hurt… me.” He couldn’t bring himself to say what she was really there to do.

Painter’s unnatural eyes widened in perfectly natural surprise. “She ah… attacked you?” he asked.

“She tried, but I heard her coming and I got away. But, she didn’t. She hurt herself.” Wren felt tears welling up again at the thought, and put a finger in the corner of his eye to try to stop it. “I guess she didn’t want to get caught, and she hurt herself, Painter. And I wanted to help her, and Mouse — he would have if there was something he could’ve done, but she was too hurt. She died.”

Painter reached over and put a hand on Wren’s shoulder, and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry. That must have b- must have been terrible.”

Now the hard part. “I think she was someone you know,” Wren said.

“Me?”

Wren nodded. “We didn’t know who she was, not until today. We were trying to find out, but everyone was trying so hard to be careful and not give anything away. We didn’t find out until Miss Rae talked to some of people from the West Wall.” The West Wall was where a lot of the folks who used to live outside had made their camp. “They think her name…” Wren struggled to force the words out. “They think it was Snow.”

Wren saw the confusion on Painter’s face, watched as he slowly made the connection and then started shaking his head in disbelief. His hand slipped slowly off of Wren’s shoulder.

“No, it cuh — no, it couldn’t be her,” he said, not denying it so much as saying there was clearly a misunderstanding. “It couldn’t be. Why would you think that?”

“Miss Rae went out and showed her picture around, asking about her, and a woman said she knew her, but hadn’t seen her in a few days. A woman named Charla.”

Painter’s hand went to his mouth, fingers lightly touching his lips. Still shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any suh- sense.”

“Have you seen her since… the first time?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Nuh… nuh… no. She wouldn’t…” He shook his head again, and looked off to the corner of the room. Remembering, maybe. After a moment, he looked back at Wren. “But I’m sure it’s not her. I’m sure she’s just off, you know… she used to go off on her own, some, some, sometimes for days. Probably just exploring. She luh-luh-luh… she loves exploring.”

“Well, could you come back to the compound with me? Just to be sure?”

“I c-c-can’t, I’m working.”

“I’m sure Mister Sun would say it was OK. It’s your sister.”

“It’s not my sister!” Painter said, sharply enough that Wren flinched. Painter softened. “It’s not my sister, OK? I’m shh… shhh… sure of it.”

There was a tap at the door, and it opened a crack. Mister Sun leaned his head in. “Master Wren, Mister Able says it is time.”

He replied, “OK, I’ll be right there, Mister Sun. Thanks.”

Mister Sun nodded and smiled, but Wren could see the concern on his face as he withdrew.

“You won’t come back with me?” Wren asked.

Painter shook his head. “Maybe luh… later tonight, after I finish.”

“I don’t think it’s safe to come alone, Painter. Not at night.”

Painter just shrugged. He wasn’t going to change his mind. And Able was waiting.

Wren nodded. “OK. Well, I’m sorry. I hope we’re wrong.”

“You are, and it’s OK.” Wren nodded again and moved to the door. “I’ll come by in, in, in, a day or tuh — two, OK?” Painter said.

“OK.”

“And Wren?”

“Yeah?”

“Nice hat.”

Wren smiled and tried to force a laugh, but it came out like a lie. “Thanks. See you, Painter.”

“Yep.”

Able was standing at the door when Wren stepped out of the room, looking like he already knew how it had gone. He nodded slightly and put his hand out for Wren’s, and together they left the Tea House.

Wren cried the whole way back.

As they neared the governor’s compound, their path led them by the north-eastern gate and though Wren’s eyes were on the ground, he felt Able’s stride slow and his hand tensed.

“What is it, Able?” Wren asked, out of reflex. Able wasn’t looking at him, so he didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. When Wren followed his gaze, he saw what had caused him to react.

The remnants were strewn all over the street. The gate itself didn’t seem to be damaged at all, though Wren couldn’t tell if anyone had been trying to break into the compound anyway. But what once had been a memorial to those who’d been taken was now little more than a pile of debris smashed against the base of the wall. The wreaths had been pulled apart, the vigil lights stomped on and smashed against the concrete, the various articles of clothing and other personal effects were all torn, crushed, or shattered. And the pictures. The pictures were mostly pulled down and scattered along the street. Some swirled, caught in little eddies of the night air.