The Remains of the Future

Part VIII: Play Four

We walk through the tents, weaving between people. Their skin is darker than mine. Their accents are slurred, and they talk faster than I am accustomed to. Colorful clothing sweeps by, attached to bodies that hold a variety of wrinkles.

My head bobs as my eyes run over every face that passes me, but I do not see Anta.

Behind the camp, there is a score of pens. The fences are positioned at the valley's edge, with the dunes surrounding them. They are made of iron, and soldiers walk around them, watching the prisoners with trained eyes.

Leaving the tents behind, we walk past pens positioned on either side of us. There are about thirty people per enclosure, and many have a haggard look about them. Trudging by, I watch from outside the coops as men practice their lines, stabbing the air with sticks or leaping and dancing in complicated patterns.

The remains of our bonds are cut, and we are shoved into the fifth pen. The gate clicks shut. Guards line the posts, both outside and inside the enclosure. Light makes the sand glitter. The pen is barren, save for bushels of hay thrown in the center (it is, presumably, where we will sleep).

About two dozen men are loitering in the middle, huddled around the dried grass, heads downcast, dull eyes glued to their papyrus, grazing the page. A few are practicing with a partner. Out of all the groups in their cages, this one has the least number of people. I see only young boys and crusty old men. There is no twirling or exaggerated readings. A few look up when we enter, but most do not. The most notable among them is a boy who looks around eleven. He has pale skin and hair and dark eyes. Another Hesha. The child lies on his back, whistling. When I look at him, he winks.

No Anta.

A guard approaches from behind the short gate, body glistening with sweat, one hand glued to his spear. He pushes a thick scroll into my hands. Taking it gingerly (my arm is sore), I walk to the center. Aytet does not follow, instead propping himself against the bars of the pen, next to a sweating soldier.

Sitting down on a stack of hay at the edge of the huddle, I unroll my scroll. I stare at it but don't actually read. Anta is flitting through my brain. How can I possibly rescue her? I am helpless here. There is nothing I can do now but memorize lines. And when I do find her? What then? Gorian escaped. But how did he?

I am powerless.

I take a deep breath and refocus on my script. Read it now, think about all that later. The scroll says the character I will play at the top: Josfu. I immerse myself in the drama. Halfway through, right after Josfu's husband dies at the hands of the villain, Theri, there is a bit where I cut off his hand. The next line says, Script 1: Kills Herself. Script 2: Kills the Perpetrator.

Underneath this, it reads script one. Further down the scroll is script two. I read both. The two scripts are divergent ways the play could go. The ending of the two are similar. The villain or I must walk into a hurricane and proclaim our love for Pesis, who will save us from all disasters. It is followed by an ode to the god sung by the chorus. The very last line is this: "May your bones never falter, for with your destruction comes ours."

It seems as if I must make the choice either to pretend to die or to fictitiously kill Theri. I wonder why they have left that decision up to me.

I have no idea how they are going to simulate the hurricane.

Looking up from my scroll, I start in surprise.

Two black orbs glare at me from the walls of the pen. The surroundings reflect in the glossy surface of his eyes, like twin glass balls. They are beautiful and terrifying.