The Remains of the Future

Part IV: Down and Down

Jumping from the bridge to an outer ramp that curves around a nearby tower, weaving between people, I fly down the ramps, descending deeper into the Dogon pit. The light wanes. Shadows lick at the edges of buildings. I see tiny pinpricks of brightness dashing about the now faintly visible ground like shooting stars.

The further I go, the more the Dogon stench pummels my nostrils. Every time I stop to catch my breath, I have to keep down a gag. The silken curtains that drape the windows gradually turn to wooden shutters, then to no window coverings at all. The people turn dirtier, their steps heavier. The walkways creak more often, and flies hum about my head. Fat ones. I'm surprised they can even fly.

Perspiration stings my eyes, and my thighs burn.

I glance at the skies for a quick moment, catching sight of a sparrowhawk that glides above me, curving across the arc of the sky. I take it as a good omen. Apparently, they are descended from the monsters of old.

The warrior's section of the tower passes by, then the merchant's, the farmer's, the builder's. Down and down.

I squint as my eyes adjust to the black.

The colorful maze slowly disappears, the orange rock bleeding into obsidian as my city's depths rise up to greet me, more and more with every step. The floor, obscured in shadow below, is a mix of dirt and other questionable contents. I know, from my last excursion down here, that it looks like an ocean of muck, occasionally undulating, as if a large squid or eel, worming about ready to swallow you whole, were prowling through the aqueous dirt.

From what I can remember, planks float on this mass, weaving from and around the stems of the towers. Dirty men trudge through the brown goo, up to their thighs in some places. They shovel the stuff into carts that hold braziers so the workers can see.

As I try to spot the workmen now, I see their sources of light, flickering. The gluttonous atmosphere is penetrated with the dirt and no light survives long down there. I can hear the workering songs mixed with the muffled cries of children and groans of the old that linger in the air.

Closer and closer.

At last, I arrive.

From what I can gauge there are no planks leading from my tower. They must have been removed or swallowed by the muck. Taking a deep breath, I wade into the stuff that I know is brown but everything here looks black, like I have entered another color scheme. Breathing through my mouth (which is hard with a bandana and the suffocatingly dirty air), I hurry for the nearest plank, calf deep in the dirty mussy liquid. The mud splatters as I climb onto a board. It feels like the dirt is clinging to every inch of my skin.

From plank to plank, I trudge through the never-ending dark alleys, growing steadily more uncomfortable. I have only been down here once and had three guards to protect me.

Forms huddle at the base of buildings, hardly visible save for when the occasional passing torch reveals them. They are bedecked in rags, muttering to themselves or whispering to one another.

Weapons, which, for the commoner, are outlawed in the city, are shamelessly worn on bare backs or strapped to arms and thighs. The thugs tramp past me, clinking the boards with their heavy steps, and I pick up the pace. I am grateful that they can barely see me. I aim for the raven black wall surrounding the towers, hopping from one lane to another, leaving dingy footprints on the nut-brown wood.

Thankfully, I see a few soldiers on patrol. But there doesn't seem to be enough of them. They're main goal, I know, is to keep anyone from destroying the city's bases.

Finally, I find what I am looking for.

Leaping from the final plank, I splat back into the goop. The large wall that goes up and up, becoming the maze, looms in front of me. Carved into the face of it, like a mouth or nose hole, thirty feet above me, is the entrance to the tunnels. Double torches are attached to either side of the opening, attached to sconces.

A grand staircase, formed of brick that might have once been attractive if it weren't for years of mud on mud, leads from the space in front of me to the sinister mouth in the rock. The brown liquid oozes onto the first and second of its steps, lapping a little, as if the substance has breath.

I squint at the entryway. There are four guards. Mercifully, Gorian is not as swift as I am. Another bonus is that the guards are posted more to keep Xance Rangers out than the Dogon people in. Which seems pointless, considering the Xance Rangers have never appeared on Dogon's front doorstep. Even when Dogon and Xance were at war. We have never seen their home, and they have never seen ours. As such, the guards assigned here are some of the most useless and careless lads Dogon has to offer.

I look around, seeing nothing but hearing the nasally voice of a man. There are many around the entrance. Men here crowd around the light, like moths to flame. A guttering torch comes to a halt inches from the man I heard, in the hands of, I am guessing, a richer man (stopping to talk to cutthroat men), and I see the beggar. He is sitting in the muck, head resting against a tower's base, squinting at the distant heavens and mumbling to himself. Turning to the right, I trudge toward him, trying not to hurl my insides out.

My legs are tingly as the muck laps around them.

The man doesn't address me, even when I am a foot from him, my mouth spewing words. At the sound torch his muttering stops, his eyes are finally pulled from the intoxicating beauty of the blue dome above.

Torches are valuable in the inner city. Here, they get around an hour of sunlight, but then the rock shadows them once more. The people here thirst. For freshwater, for pleasant smells, for a single look at the land overhead. But something they desire that is in their grasp is light.

More specifically, fire.

Taking my pack from my shoulders, I retrieve my stick, the end wrapped in a rag, along with a skin of oil and flint "Would you like to play a game with me?" I ask. "Would you like to make things burn? My torches are the valuable ones, the ones that burn longer and brighter. I'm looking for someone intimidating. If you're not too busy, you might do the trick."

That might have been the most ridiculous lie I have ever told. Another sin to add to the list of offenses I have committed in the name of friendship.

His eyes brighten almost imperceptibly, but he shakes his bald, wrinkly head. "I don't want to join them," he points to my right, to another hole in the wall of Dogon. Turning to follow his shaking finger, I see a bone poking out of the crevasse. An arm, perhaps? Another dying torch set above it makes the horrific thing visible.

I whip my head back, nausea washing over me. "What is that?" I ask.

He chuckles dryly. "Don't you know, child?"

"No," I breathe.

"Rich?"

"No, no," I say, but can think of nothing else to utter beyond that. Not with the skeleton appendage still in my head.

"That is where the soldiers take you if you make trouble," the man says.

"Surely," I remark. "They wouldn't do that to you. My fath—the Overlord, and the laws don't permit it."

"Look around," he says. "There are few of those down here."

Of course, I know that. The weapons worn, the dealings you can see in the corner of your eye, the emaciated forms, the yells and groans invading every corner. I had just refused to acknowledge it until now.

"Ok," I say. "I will find someone else."

I begin to walk away.

"Wait," the man calls after me, trying to stand. I lend him a hand. "Let me hear your game first, daughter of the Overlord."