Behold a Dark Mirror Read online

  Why should I worry? What do I have to worry about? Jenus thought, feeling exhausted. The rain persisted. He was asking too much of his psyche and his body, yet he walked on, braving uncharted territory.

  When he got tired, he sat on a piece of concrete in the rain. The rhyme kept running over and over in his now feverish distress.

  Future lingers 'fore your fingers

  reminiscing time's morass...

  ...yes, time tickles the fingertips of man's intellect. The future is here—that is, it will be here, and then it's not, killed by its own birth. Gone, and returning, but never the same. It was too cold: He wrapped his wet coat tighter around his body. Cigarette? How could he think of a cigarette? The memory alone of the smell made him heave.

  ...seeking answers watch the dancers

  just beyond the looking glass...

  ...how many tried to look in the crystal ball and failed? All that man can do is take the shadows of the past and toss them at tomorrow. Tomorrow. What would he do tomorrow? Wake up in a lousy motel, vegetate until bedtime? Yet the bed would be warm and dry. His teeth chattered; he could not stop them. They had a will of their own.

  ...but future dies before sunrise,

  so behold a dark mirror.

  ...nobody can imagine the changes that start new eras until they happen; man forecasts daylight when the sun shines, but not the night before the next day. How can one imagine the next day from the night before it? And now it was dark, and wet. And cold. The concrete was hard, but he could lay down an instant, yes, daylight would come faster if he rested, and this rain would stop perhaps. What would he do tomorrow? Would it be sunrise, or would the future die? His shivers grew stronger. Jenus felt weak; he hugged himself, rocking to and fro.

  "Are you injured?" a woman's voice chirped behind him suddenly. He turned around, leaning on his arm. A nondescript figure in a raincoat was staring at him.

  "No," Jenus answered, sniffling. "Who are you?"

  "You don't act like a prowler," she said. "I'd like to help you if I can." She went on, "You look like you need help. Are you a hingo? What are you doing here?"

  "I... I don't know what I am doing."

  "My name is Hawwa. Are you in trouble?"

  Jenus remained silent.

  "You really don't act like a prowler. Got a place for the night?" She added quickly: "Don't misunderstand me. I mean a place out of the rain, that's all."

  Jenus shook his head.

  "Come along." She turned around. Jenus got up; his joints ached, his clothes were sticky and cold. He followed her. His legs were unsteady, his mind muddled, his muscles unreliable. They turned the corner of the closest ruins. Hawwa made for a door across sparse debris, opened it, and invited Jenus to follow her down a flight of stairs, through a short corridor and another door.

  The apartment behind it was dry and barren. She showed Jenus to a mat on the floor, then walked to another room, closing and locking the metal door between them.

  Jenus looked at naked concrete walls, at grim panes in a window opening on a shallow well, at the dry floor. He stripped off the wettest clothing and coughed insistently before lying down.

  Fever drove him into a restless sleep.

  The next day Hawwa shook him, saying: "It's time. Wake up, it's time."

  Jenus felt his head in the grips of pain, his joints and lungs on fire. He coughed with a spasm.

  "Can you hear me? It's time that you go. It's daytime and the rain has stopped."

  Jenus nodded, and with effort sat up on the mat, dizzy. He looked at Hawwa for the first time in the daylight. Her skin was olive-dark, her hair black. She was looking at him with limpid brown eyes. "Thanks," Jenus said. He tried to get up, but lost equilibrium and fell back on the mat.

  "You're really sick," Hawwa said. Hesitating, she reached for his forehead with her hand. "And very hot."

  Jenus looked at her, helpless.

  She returned the look, pondering.

  "I can't let you go like this." She disappeared into the other room and returned with a cup.

  "Here, have this," she said.

  Jenus took the cup to his lips and drank in small sips something warm and salty. Swallowing was painful. He said in a raucous whisper, without looking at her, "Why are you doing this for me?"

  Hawwa hesitated before answering. "Because it's the right thing to do," she said, walking to the other room, coming back with a black book. A real book full of paper pages. "Here, see? This is called the New Testament. Can you read?"

  Jenus nodded.

  "This was written for us," Hawwa continued. "It says that if you love your neighbor and do a lot of other difficult things, you still have hope. You're my neighbor today," she sat on the floor in front of Jenus. "Helping you is my claim to hope. But I'm afraid you don't have a clue what I'm talking about."

  The broth had revived Jenus a bit. "You mean, hope?" he said.

  She nodded. "Among the rest, yes. I'm a hingo. Guess you're a hingo, too. Life is hard—look at yourself. You're about to die of exposure, maybe you'd be dead if I hadn't let you in. What's your hope? Mine is here." She patted the book. "As for this life," she continued, "I don't know. My dad was a Guilder. When I was a child I lived in a nice home. Plenty of food, friends, good life. Then he did something stupid."

  Jenus's racing heart skipped a few beats.

  "Now," Hawwa went on, "I live like this. I know where to find food. I know how to scrape a living. I find a job once in a while. Are you from around here?"

  Jenus tried to answer but was too slow.

  Hawwa interrupted his attempt: "Of course not if you don't know where you are. What hingo doesn't know about Wayford Park? Let me tell you, there are lots of us around here. Some live better than I do, but most are breaking the law," she patted the black book, "in one way or another. And I can't—I guess I'll die a spinster, oh well, so much the better. Who cares. But you," she said, "need a doctor. Can you walk if I help you?"

  He looked at her. "Where can you find a doctor for those... for us?"

  She helped him get up, supporting him as he tried walk. "The public dispensary behind the animal clinic. We'll have to wait, but it's free."

  "How do we get there?"

  "We'll find a way... What's your name?"

  "Jenus."

  "We'll find a way, Jenus."

  *

  They eventually entered the squalid waiting room of the clinic and took a seat. Jenus's forehead felt very hot to Hawwa's touch. All her attempts to strike up a conversation with him met incoherence: He faded in and out. Hawwa watched the crowd sitting on the hard benches.

  "See," she said, "That's a gutter gang. They all dress the same those gutters, so they can tell each other. What a life, always walking—I mean, thousands of miles, sprawl to sprawl, panhandling. But what can I say, I'm no better than they are."

  Jenus's head fell on her shoulder.

  "Jenus!" She said, as she tried to arrange him on the bench in a balanced position. She got up to wet a napkin at the water fountain, returned and laid it on his face. He was dirty, and ragtag, but cute under the grime; Hawwa wiped his brow and cheeks. Jenus was unconscious.

  "One-oh-seven!" Someone called.

  "That's us, Jenus," Hawwa said, trying to pick him up.

  "One-oh-seven, last call!"

  "Here!" Hawwa yelled. "I need help!"

  An orderly picked Jenus up arm-on-shoulders and walked to the examination room, Hawwa following. The door closed; Jenus was now barely conscious after the rough handling.

  "Name?" said the nurse, a stocky woman who wore anachronistic glasses and the disposition of a drill sergeant.

  "Hawwa Abudawud."

  "Are you sick?"

  "No, he's sick. I'm OK, ma'am."

&nbs
p; "His name, then."

  "Jenus..." Hawwa realized she didn't know how to continue. "Abudawud." Jenus stared at the world behind remote, watery eyes.

  "Are you related?" Said the nurse.

  She hesitated. "Brother and sister." She added quickly: "Different mothers."

  The nurse looked at her, then at Jenus; she raised her eyebrows and lowered her glasses, looking again at Hawwa and then Jenus, smirking. "What's the problem?" she said.

  "He has a bad fever. Coughs."

  The nurse stuck something in Jenus's ear, read the dial, pursed her lips, stripped his back naked. "What are these bruises?" She said.

  Hawwa shrugged: "He dropped by me like this yesterday," she said. "I don't know."

  The nurse turned her attention to Jenus. She probed his back to feel for cracked ribs, and auscultated his lungs. When she was finished, the nurse walked to a shelf, picked up a box and handed it to Hawwa. "One every four hours, until you have no more. If you care for his life, keep him indoors at least until the fever dies. If he's alive in two days, he'll be OK." She scribbled a note, addressed the orderly: "Next call."

  The orderly hauled Jenus to the door and handed him to Hawwa before yelling "One-oh-eight!"

  *

  The next fifty hours for Jenus were a confused period of darkness and light, salty broth and wet cold napkins. Then the world reappeared: He woke up to hear Hawwa reading at his mat side. She realized he was awake and alert, but continued until she reached a stopping place:

  "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves."

  She looked at him. "Are you a ravenous wolf, Jenus? Or are you a prophet?"

  "How long have I been here?"

  "Three days, more or less."

  "What happened?"

  "You were sitting in the rain at night, whimpering. I brought you here. The next morning you were sick and we went to the dispensary. Then you were delirious for two days. Don't you remember?"

  Jenus shook his head, and looked at her. Hawwa was a clean girl, perhaps twenty-five. Under shabby clothing, she sported a nice figure. She was pretty—dark skin, fine features, bright brown eyes. "I remember nothing after the first night. Did you give my name to anybody?"

  "Yes. No. Not really."

  He looked at her, alarmed: "Yes or no?"

  "I said your name was Jenus Abudawud—that's my last name. I'm sorry I lied, but I didn't know your last name, so I told the nurse we were brother and sister."

  He sighed in relief. "Thank heavens."

  "Why are you afraid of people knowing who you are?"

  "The Civil Defense, and perhaps the Tower and ConSEnt are looking for me."

  Her eyebrows rose. She whispered, "What have you done? Did you kill someone important?"

  "No. I didn't kill anybody." He thought it over, realized this was a lie, but chose to leave it as it stood.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  Jenus wondered if he should answer that question. He owed Hawwa. He owed her some concern, too: The less she knew, the safer she was.

  "It's a long story. You know who I am, in a way."

  "Well, not really. You spoke in your delirium, but not much that made sense. I'm not afraid of you, but I don't even know your last name."

  "It's safer that you don't."

  She closed the book in her lap, smiling. "What's next?"

  "I guess I'll leave."

  "Where are you going?"

  Long pause. "Nowhere."

  "You are a hingo, then. Do you have a better place than this in mind?" She pursed her lips. "It's not fancy..."

  Some understatement, thought Jenus.

  "...but it's clean. And honest."

  Jenus shook his head: "Nothing to complain about your place. And I owe you. Are you permanent? Will I find you here?"

  "Yes!" Hawwa said.

  "Hawwa, how—How can you survive in a place like this?"

  She smiled a clean smile. "Oh, the Lord watches over me."

  *

  In the daylight Jenus found his way back to civilization, bought some food, and returned to his motel. He remembered the trip to the book museum, the park, and the bored professor; he remembered walking in the rain past the park boundary. After that, events blurred into each other—until he woke up this morning at Hawwa's. His cheap room was luxurious if compared to Hawwa's place, but a lonely hotel bed might have been his deathbed: She had saved his life.

  The awareness of being alive had washed his blues away for a few hours. The air smelled fresh. The light was brighter. Comparing himself-now to himself-in-the-park was frightening to Jenus because he knew he'd be back in the park soon—unless he did something. But what? What was he to do?

  He took a hot shower, smelling the scent of the soap, enjoying the shampoo bubbles and the water jets between his toes. He nuked a towel in the microwave to treat himself to warm terry cloth, and sprawled on the bed, turning on the video. The news anchorman appeared, standing life-size in the middle of the room reporting on many trivial and a few major events; there was no mention of Jenus's deeds. Then, a commercial: "Virgil, your next paradise!" The video squawked, showing images of unspoiled natural beauty.

  "Tired of your daily drudgery? Take a chance—it's on us. Break away to the excitement of remote, exotic horizons. Dream beneath two moons! Watch the uncharted skies of the Frontier from the backyard of your own home. Yes, your very own home!"

  The video showed scenes of family life now.

  "Virgil is the new settlement sponsored by the Tower: We have room for all those quick enough to recognize the opportunity of a lifetime. We offer our reputation and our rock-solid support—we're behind you one hundred percent. Enjoy pre-arranged ownership of residential land beginning one year after occupation. We want you with us. Has life been hard? Tell us what we can do, we'll give you a new beginning. Virgil—your next home: the best new place in the galaxy to bring up a family—and have the time of your life, with a clean, fresh, rewarding start, regardless of your past. Watch your work make a new world blossom! Here, you can make a difference! Is this what you always wished, but were never given a chance to do? Come see us now! We have it here, ready—we have your chance. Even better: We take the risk—you take the prize. Remember: Virgil can be your next paradise. But availability is limited, first come, first served. And if you want to start again, we offer a special no-questions-asked package: if you are alive, you can take it! We take the risk—you take the prize."

  CHAPTER 13

  "Fighting ConSEnt is insane under normal circumstances, but our circumstances are abnormal. Hence, we stand a serious chance of succeeding," Kebe said. Nero nodded: Be daring, burn out, die with a bang if you must. Her drive was irresistible: No odds would deter Kebe's resolve. From her, Nero had found the spark to reignite his own sense of purpose. She would have tried eating Cheshire tail herself, were it not that Nero could relapse at any time, and someone had to guard Lenny Duskin's memoirs.

  Doka's beacon was ready to broadcast. Soon the memoirs would travel at light speed on radio waves for anyone listening. It would be years before the beacon's broadcast reached an audience—that was both good and bad. It was good because radio waves are unstoppable once on their way, so if all other plans failed, Lenny Duskin's memoirs would still be made public. It was bad because the delay would be great; by the time someone heard, ConSEnt could be running the universe.

  Kebe's mailing operation proceeded—memoirs, decoys, and all—with Nero's help. The Cheshires left them alone, to Kebe's great relief. Still, a shadow hung over their plan: She insisted that what had happened to him should be made public.

  Nero disagreed, yet he realized Kebe might have a better perception. She insisted Nero's destiny was more important to mankind than Lenny Duskin's
diary. The diary was politics. Nero's—mutation?—was a claim on transcendence.

  *

  In the way station, Nero and Kebe kept the mailer busy, shipping out pieces of rock as fast as possible.

  "Are you ready for the fight?" Nero said.

  "I can't stand fighting. I prefer to run and hide," Kebe answered, pressing the button to trigger the next shipment. The mailer hummed and swallowed its load.

  "Nah—you're a fighter whether you like it or not."

  "Are you kidding me?" she said. "Blood, death, hatred and all that crap drive us inside. When the horror without is too big, we hide within, and then the real horror begins. There are no allies; nobody can fight someone else's battles there. That’s an enemy you can't escape and nobody else can fight. Retreat is impossible. And in my case, that enemy usually wins. That's why I run and hide." Kebe reached for another rock and placed it in the mailer.

  Nero shook his head. "You showed me how to fight my battle, Kebe. How can I believe your enemy usually wins?"

  "It wins if I listen—all I can do is shout louder so that I can't hear its call. What I've done for you is to show you who your enemy is. Your fight is not my fight." She lowered her eyes. "Besides, I'm lying. There is one ally. If you like, I can tell you about my ally."

  "Tell me." Nero turned his attention briefly to the mailer, setting the destination address.

  "I'd like to introduce you two to each other—have you ever met God?"

  "Not in the flesh." Nero turned away to push the mailer's dispatch switch.

  "Me neither." she said. "I meant spiritually, or intellectually, or whichever way you like it. Do you believe in miracles?"

  "I bet that a framepost would have passed as a miracle not too long ago," Nero said, looking at Kebe over his shoulder.