Pasha Malla - People Park

You’re in the basement? That’s your unit?

Olpert pulled Sam to his feet, his face came close, it smelled of broiled meat. Olpert said, You can’t see anything, can you?

I can see it’s light okay, Sam said.

You need to go to the hospital.

But Sam shook his head. No, my room, he said. The work’s not done. Help me.

OLPERT STEPPED OUT the front door with Sam on his arm. The sky was opening up into a clear and pretty morning, yet the lawn was sodden. Olpert’s first thought was that the septic tank had ruptured again. But this was surface water: at the southern edge of the property little waves rippled up from the lake.

The Islet had flooded once before, when Olpert was nine. He and his grandfather and the other residents had been rescued by ferry. The flood itself hadn’t been frightening. Coming ashore the real terror had begun: a fleet of ambulances screaming out of the city, a storm of flashbulbs and jabbing microphones, a gawking crowd from Lakeview Homes as the Islet’s evacuees were lined up like hostages and tallied.

Why are we standing here, said Sam. What’s happening?

Nothing, said Olpert, and looped his arm around Sam’s neck and helped him around back where steps descended to the basement unit.

Opening the door released a damp and earthy aroma, inside this soured into a yoghurty bouquet of mildew and infrequently washed man. Olpert set Sam down on the couch, a plastic approximation of leather, flaking and lumpy, greasy and stained.

You okay?

Sam said nothing. The compress seeped through in twin damp ovals.

Olpert had never been in one of the other residents’ units. He took a moment to appraise it: bags of garbage positioned into hedgerows, a bed neatly, almost institutionally made, junk strewn everywhere — broken toys, kitchen appliances missing key parts (a bladeless blender, a toaster oven without a door), stripped car stereos, a heap of sawdust, lumber, a toolkit, a saw — and a huge armoire against the far wall, the doors boarded up and chained in what resembled braces against invasion.

From inside this armoire, someone knocked.

Hello? called a faint voice — a child’s. Hello?

Sam tensed.

Let me out, whined the voice.

Who’s in there, said Olpert. You’ve got a kid in there.

Sam said nothing, jaw clenched, teeth gritted.

The child knocked again and called for help, its voice as detached as waking-world sounds to the sleeper slipping into dreams.

I don’t know who you’ve got in there, but I’m going to let them out, said Olpert. Okay?

Sam seemed to be listening to something else. Olpert heard it too: a glubbing sound. Water bumped against the basement’s groundlevel windows. From the bottom of the windowframe a lightning-shaped chute jagged down the wallpaper.

First, the kid in the cupboard.

Do you have the combination to this lock?

There’s a way but I don’t know it okay. The work was not letting him out.

Well we’re letting him out now.

Sam pawed the crust on his jaw.

Olpert stepped to the armoire, spoke to it: Don’t worry, I’m here to help.

Who are you? replied the child’s voice.

He didn’t know what to say to this. In the toolkit he found a hammer and pried the boards off, knocked the bolts from the hinges, the door folded open. A fattish boy drifted out from the shadows. He wore a red cap and matching knapsack and he moved with the sludgy gait of a sleepwalker.

The boy sat on the couch. Where is this? he asked Sam. Did I trunk here?

Did you change into a boy, said Sam, or did you take Raven’s place?

Yes, I’m taking Raven’s place! My name is Gip Poole, said the boy. Don’t forget it!

Gip. . Poole? said Olpert. You were onstage? Not Bode?

Poole, said Gip firmly. Gosh, why does everyone — he looked hard at Sam. Hey, I know you. You’re the one with the lock. Why do you have that thing on your eyes? Are you sick?

People are looking for you, said Olpert.

I trunked! said Gip happily. Didn’t I?

Sam shrugged. If you say so okay.

Olpert peeked into the armoire: yellowing newsprint, a splotchy pillow. What make of kidnapping was this? The boy hadn’t rushed to freedom, Sam seemed only perplexed. There was nothing nefarious or sinister between abductor and abductee, side by side on the couch. They looked like strangers waiting for the same latenight train, bewildered that anyone else might be taking it too.

From upstairs came footsteps — the other residents collecting in the kitchen. The floorboards creaked, voices muttered, water trickled in through the window.

Sam, said Olpert, do you know the other people who live here?

What time is it, he said.

Time? I don’t know what time it is. Morning! Time to leave! Your eyes — and you, Gip, what about your parents?

My parents are Kellogg and Pearl. And I have a sister Elsie-Anne but I call her Dorkus and she calls me Stuppa because she couldn’t say Stupid when she was little and it stuck.

From between the couch cushions Sam dug the TV remote. The set burst into static.

I think it’s broken, said Gip.

Overhead the footsteps moved across the floor to the front door, and through the basement window Olpert watched two men and a woman go highstepping across the flooded lawn. The leak was thickening — tributaries into a forked river, all the way to the carpet — while Sam flicked through fizzing, broken channels.

We need to get out of here, Olpert said.

We do , said Gip. We have to go because I’m the one that’s supposed to finish the illustration. Because he chose me. I’m the chosen one. Raven —

Raven? said Sam. He turned off the set. In the TV’s empty face, bowed and grotesque, hovered his and Gip’s reflections. What do you know about Raven?

What do I know ? Only everything! Nobody’s a bigger fan than me, mister, got it? Maybe you didn’t see me trunk here? Now can we go , please? I’ve got work to do!

Work? said Sam.

Quiet, both of you, said Olpert.

The water had submerged the basement window. And now Sam’s front door was leaking too. On the other side Olpert imagined a little tiered waterfall cascading down the steps, pooling at the bottom, seeping greedily under the door.

The water’s coming in, it’s flooding, said Olpert. I’ll take you both. We have to go.

AFTER AN ENDLESS tumble through the darkness, the cart stopped with a judder. The Mayor pitched forward, clutched the sides, somehow didn’t fall. The air was black, it seemed both sprawling and to compress around her. Tilted on an incline, she realized someone or something was holding the cart: a foot against the wheels, a hand upon the edge, inches from her own hands. And even before he spoke, she knew who it was.

Greetings, my queen, said the voice — that creamy, sleepy voice.

The Mayor sighed.

Can you see me?

It’s too dark.

Look at me. Try.

I don’t go in for this sort of craziness. I can’t be party to it.

Nor I, Mrs. Mayor, nor I. But please. Focus your eyes. Allow them to acclimate.

She closed her eyes, opened them: and saw less than when they had been closed.

And now? said Raven.

Is this where you’ve been hiding? A hole in the ground?

Is that where we are? A hole? It seems to me more complicated than that. But what do I know, this is your town —

City. This is a city. My city.

Pardon me, of course. Your city, your splendid metropolis, your great megalopolis. I trust you’re aware what comes next.

Feeling herself easing downward again she grabbed the sides of the cart. The movement halted. Raven rocked her softly, back and forth, like a babe in its cradle.