Jay Posey - Three

“I imagine you’re quite hungry. Shall we find you a proper meal? Something other than soup?”

Three nodded, and steeled himself for another attempt at moving. As he rolled up to his elbow, Chapel rose to his feet with surprising ease and fluidity, almost as if falling in reverse, though completely controlled. The next moment he was at Three’s side, offering a hand. Not as a nurse to an invalid; as a man to his friend. Three took it and, after a brief struggle, was standing.

“You lost quite a bit of blood,” Chapel said. “I expect you’ll find yourself unusually weary for the next few days.” He extended his hand, holding out the object that he’d been working on, offering it to Three. “This may help, until you’ve gotten your balance back.”

Three accepted it with curiosity, and realized it was a walking stick, carved of a smooth, stout wood. Three, maybe three and a half feet in length, it was well-balanced, with a subtle but elegant arch. Delicate markings near the end seemed to be an incomplete etching at first, but when he rotated it in the meager light, they revealed themselves to be an understated image reminiscent of bamboo. Minimalist detail that captured the essence perfectly. Whole lot of effort for a stick. Chapel seemed to anticipate Three’s thoughts.

“A foolish habit of mine,” he offered. “But the rude etching shouldn’t interfere with its effectiveness as a stick, at any rate.”

Three gripped it, tested his weight against it. For a walking stick, it felt good in his hand. Solid. Natural.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

“This way.”

Chapel led Three out into a narrow corridor, slowly but firmly, setting a casual pace, Three’s every other step sounding with the dull thunk of his walking stick on the floor. The corridor wasn’t wide enough for them to walk side-by-side, so Chapel kept a pace ahead. As they walked, Three noticed other sliding doors on his left. Most pulled closed. Other rooms, like his, he guessed. There were no doors on the right. Just the occasional orange-glow lantern mounted on the wall. Mindlessly, Three ran his free hand along the wall, noticed it was warm to the touch. Some kind of geothermal heating system, he guessed. More sophisticated than he’d first thought.

After about twenty feet, the corridor took a sharp right, and continued on. Further down on the right however, was a large double-door. When they reached it, Chapel slid one door partially open, just wide enough to pass through. Three followed, surprised to find the air suddenly cold and crisp, and more surprised to discover it was the middle of the night. Chapel closed the doors behind them, and started out across a small courtyard.

“Where’s Wren?”

“Sleeping, I imagine,” Chapel answered. “He’s been staying with Lil and some of the other children in one of the shared rooms.”

“How many children do you have here?”

“Twenty-two, including your son.”

Three marveled at that, wondering just how big a place it was. He couldn’t remember a time he’d seen that many kids all in the same place. “He’s not my son, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I’m taking him to his father, in Morningside,” Three said. “We were traveling with his mother.”

He covered the sudden tightening in his throat with a forced cough.

“I see,” Chapel answered, with such weight that Three felt he really did see, that he’d absorbed the entire message, both said and unsaid. They walked in silence a few moments, as if Chapel sensed Three’s need for the chance to compose himself. And then, the moment before it would become awkward, he spoke up again. “You are of course welcome to stay as long as you need. Though as you regain your strength, we may ask you to assist with some small tasks here and there. We’re a small community, each with responsibilities.”

“Sure. Of course.”

Three scanned the surroundings, surveyed the compound, though somehow compound seemed to be the wrong word for it. It felt too open. There were a number of structures of varying sizes, each lit with lanterns of various sizes, spaced at differing intervals. As they walked, Three realized there were others moving in the darkness, near what he guessed to be the outer perimeter. And as they turned and made their way towards a rectangle-shaped, low-roofed building, he noticed at last the wall that surrounded the area. It was barely three feet tall, with gentle, drooping curves. More for aesthetics than protection.

“How close are we to the Strand?” Three asked.

“Quite close. We are on its border, by most accounts.”

A figure approached from the darkness.

“No secure structures, no walls. How do you live out here, exposed like this?”

The figure, a man draped in a heavy cloak of some kind, passed quietly, exchanging a brief nod. As he moved by, Three noticed the hilt of a blade under the man’s cloak.

“Vigilance and discipline are our walls,” Chapel answered. “We are not animals that we should live in a pen.”

“Sounds nice. You tell that to the Weir?”

They reached the rectangle building, and climbed the few steps to its porch. Chapel paused outside.

“They do come, from time to time. So far, they are disappointed.”

Chapel’s lips moved in the subtlest hint of a smile, and then he slid open the door to the building. Inside there was a large, open central room, with a number of long tables with benches, as well as a few smaller tables with chairs.

“Take a seat. I’ll see what food we have on hand.”

Three eased into a chair at one of the smaller tables. When he sat, he rested his forearm on the table, felt it shift slightly. A sudden flood of memory caught him by surprise. The bar. The shifting table. The first time he saw Cass. He closed his eyes against the images. Would she be alive now, if he hadn’t gotten involved? Would it even have mattered? Either way, she would’ve been gone. But now she was his burden to bear, terrible and beautiful.

Approaching footsteps forced him back to the moment, and he opened his eyes with relief, with regret. The memory of Cass seared and soothed, brought a comfortable pain that Three found himself reluctant to let go. Chapel slid a spoon and a bowl of thick brown stew in front of Three, and sat in a chair opposite.

“I hope you’ll find it suitable. It was the first thing I came across that didn’t require significant preparation.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great, thank you,” Three said. He picked up the spoon, found it strangely unsteady in his hand. Trembling. He took a bite. Utterly amazing. Best he could tell, there were potatoes and green beans in there, among other things. Real potatoes, not the synthetic mass-produced starch compound that people sometimes likened to potatoes. Not a mass of goopy proteins and gelatin carbohydrates whose flavors were customizable by the 99.9% of the world with the hardware to dial it in, that may as well have been ashes to Three. It was likely the first meal that he had ever truly tasted.

Three’s belly strained well before the stew was gone, having gone days without solid food, but he force-fed himself anyway. When he finished, he looked up to find Chapel watching him with a hint of amusement.

“Would you care for more?”

“I would,” Three said, “but I think my gut would split.”

Chapel smiled. “It’ll take a day or two for your body to remember food, but we have plenty for you. We should be certain to focus on iron-rich meals; spinach, lentils, beans, that sort of thing. It will accelerate your recovery from the blood loss.”

Three nodded. “You have all that here?”

“We grow quite a bit. Perhaps tomorrow I can give you a proper tour. If you feel up to it.”

“That’d be great.”