The Semaphore

Pontis had a curious dream.

He stood on the shore of a lake. A girl about his age with long white hair stood in the lake’s middle, the water’s surface unbroken under her feet. She wore strange clothes that were too large for her. She held a long string that extended up into the sky, all the way to the dim sun, which hung there, obediently, awaiting the girl’s command.

The girl looked gravely at Pontis, her mouth drawn, and pointed behind him.

As he turned he found himself within a narrow spiral staircase. It was lined on all sides with lush red fabric. He was barefoot. His feet plodded silently on the soft steps as he descended. Below him: a sound, single note, plucked as if on an untuned guitar, over and over.

The staircase spiraled down and down into coalescent red. The single note rang never nearer, always just below. Pontis’s toes curled over the edges of the steps. He quickened his pace, driven by sudden needfulness and fear and awakening with the downward momentum still guiding him, feeling, as sleep detached, as if he knew the place. As if he had always known it.

The bed was empty. Pontis drew the curtains aside and stretched in the morning sunlight. He felt as rested as he ever had. How long had he slept? Fifteen hours? More?

Downstairs he found a plate of toast and beans on the kitchen table, still hot from the pan—though cooked on what stove he could not say—and a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He sat alone and ate, his heavy restfulness releasing slowly until even the dream of the red staircase felt like someone else’s memory, relayed to him in whispers.

He found Doctor Hummel and Varia in the study, standing over the girl. She was exposed, lying atop a new set of clean white cloths. There were books open on the table beside her, thick books packed with small text and photographs of body parts and diagrams that Pontis could not decipher. The cabinet was open, and the dark mirror—the monitor—displayed a graph of colorful bars, each a different length.

The girl had been cleaned since the day before; her wounds seemed less inflamed, and her skin generally less caked in grit. A piece of gauze had been laid over her eyes, which gave her the appearance, at least, that she was resting.

Varia touched the girl’s foot gently, and smiled sadly at Pontis.

Hummel cleared his throat and waddled to the monitor. “It was wise of your mother not to wrap the girl in bandages before travel,” he said as if in response to a question someone had raised. “Her skin is too badly degraded. The friction would have caused additional abrasions.” He studied the monitor, tapping his spectacles and nodding slowly. “Mhm. Yes. This was a good idea, Miss Longley. Very clever.”

Pontis shrugged an eyebrow at Varia.

“I woke up thinking how we could help her,” Varia said, her hand resting on the girl’s foot. “I asked Doctor Hummel if there was a way to figure where the girl’s from. So we could at least bring her home.”

Hummel flipped through a book on the table, landed on a particular page and tapped a graph with his knobby finger. “At first I wasn’t sure how to go about it,” he said, his eyes two huge pupils. “But then Varia here said something that got me thinking.”

“I told how in Lowood Den there’s so many pigeons everywhere,” Varia said. “I’m always finding feathers in my clothes and hair. Even this morning—bathed yesterday, changed my clothes, haven’t even been out down in Lowood Den for five days—I still found a pigeon feather in my pocket.”

Pontis nodded in agreement.

“I asked Hummel if maybe there was something like this—like pigeon feathers—we could use to figure where she came from.”

Pontis took out his voice pad. ‘You’re looking for feathers?’ he wrote.

“Radiation,” said Hummel. He set the book down and unfolded a large map littered with hundreds of numbers. “Look here,” he said. “These numbers correspond to radiation levels in the soil. See here?” He placed his finger in the midst of a wooded expanse. “This is Lowood Den. Very low soil radiation, relatively. Here,” his finger drifted to the edge of the Lowoods, “where we are now, they are slightly higher. And so on.” He pointed to an area far in the north, where dark mountains were inked like waves in a storm. “The soil radiation will correspond to levels in everything. Trees, grass, birds, and of course, people. Pigeon feathers.” He indicated the monitor. “This girl’s radiation levels correspond with this region.” He placed his finger on a forested area to the northwest of Rapidan—more than twice the distance between Lowood Den and Hummel’s home. “Allegewi Forest,” he said. “This is where you’ll find the girl’s home.”

Pontis took in the map. He was struck by how small the Lowoods appeared, on the map’s south central edge; they barely constituted an area larger than a palm on a map that occupied half the oak table; the Allegewi Forest was three times larger. He was surprised also to discover that the ravine, which he had known his whole life as a feature of the Lowoods, continued north through the entirety of Rapidan before turning eastward and splitting into dozens of narrow offshoots that fed into the coast.

Pontis handed Hummel a note from his voice pad. ‘Do you have a map with names?’

Hummel shuffled to a shelf. He thumbed through a stock of maps until he found the one he was looking for. “These maps are old,” he said, spreading it on the table overlapping the first one. “But things change slowly now.”

The new map was similar to the other, though instead of radiation numbers it indicated place and region names. Lowood Den remained near the bottom, surrounded by the Lowoods, which abutted the hills of Rapidan to the north, the plateaus of Shandoah to the west, the swamps and marshes of Cade to the south, and a narrow section of land between the Lowoods and the coast called Blackwater, to the east. Pontis had never known how near to the ocean he lived. When this was all over, he decided, he would take Harper and Ien to see it.

This story originates from NovelFire. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Allegewi Forest wrapped, crescent-shaped, along the northwest edge of Rapidan. Northeast of Allegewi was a long expanse of barren land labeled ‘Senescence,’ which stretched unimpeded to the base of the Chavanuck Mountains. North of the mountains was a frozen region called ‘Albedon,’ and north of that the map dissolved into blankness.

Southeast of the Chavanuck Mountains, right on the coast, was the city of Osseon. It was written on the map as ‘Osseon, The Garden of the Well.’ Relative to the map’s scale, it appeared so close to Lowood Den, and closer still to where they currently stood in southern Rapidan.

Varia traced the crescent of Allegewi. There were towns sprinkled throughout its length, and her finger drifted from one to the next.

“Do you know which town, of these?” she asked Hummel.

Hummel grunted and leaned over the corresponding radiation map. “Somewhere on the south end,” he said. “But the numbers are not exact enough to determine further.”

Varia tapped the southern tip of Allegewi, indicating the two towns there. “Either Rainelle or Arborvale,” she said. “That’s where we’re off next.”

Pontis looked up at her.

“At least that’s where I’m off,” she said.

Pontis pictured his Ma and his sister, eating together at the kitchen table. He pictured Ien sitting by the pond, reading a book and basking in the summer sun. He heard the bullfrogs croaking and the constant whir of the dragonflies. He saw the towers of the suspension bridge rising into the sky, pigeons fluttering like crumbs against the clouds. He looked at the girl on the table, her body so broken she could no longer breathe. He tried to picture her family. Were they safe at their home in Rainelle or Arborvale, missing their little girl, wondering where she’d gone? The idea of someone taking Harper and hurting her caused Pontis’s hands to curl into fists. Whoever had done this—a Hemmick practitioner or whatever—needed to be stopped. Pontis’s family would wait for him. And if he did his part, they would be safe.

He jotted out a note and handed it to Hummel.

‘Can we take this map?’

#

When they left the study, Laszlo was standing in the foyer, his bags fastened to his back.

“We’d best go,” he said, kneeling to tighten the laces of his boots. “It’s still early, and if we hold a good pace—and watch the ravine this time—we can make it back out down to Lowood Den in four days. Would’ve only taken that to get here if we hadn’t gotten lost to start.” He stood up. “And I think it’s best the girl stays here.”

Hummel grunted and disappeared back into his study.

“We’re not going back,” said Varia.

Laszlo frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

“We’re going north, to Allegewi Forest. It’s where the girl’s from. We’re taking her home.”

Pontis nodded.

Laszlo rubbed his face. “This isn’t what we were pulled for,” he said. “Your father—and your mother, Pontis—gave us task to seek Hummel’s knowledge. He’s shared that knowledge with us. We know something now we didn’t. Far as we’re concerned, our errand ends here.”

“They told us to go to Osseon—”

“If Hummel wasn’t here.”

“—to find out if we’re in danger,” Varia finished calmly. “That we don’t have an answer on. I’m not going back without knowing. And I’m surely not leaving the girl here.”

For a long time Laszlo stared at Varia, his eyes signaling things that Pontis could not read.

“If there’s danger,” he said finally, “we’re better suited to meet it back in Lowood Den.”

“I agree,” Varia said, “that your responsibility’s back in Lowood Den. They need you there.”

Laszlo took a long breath, then smiled faintly at Varia. “I understand,” he said. “Good luck. And here…” He pulled his compass from his pocket and tossed it to Pontis. “Didn’t do us any good in the Lowoods. Maybe you’ll find some use for it, where you’re headed.”

Pontis held the compass level; its red needle pointed through him to the north.

Laszlo turned to go.

“Wait,” Varia stepped forward.

Laszlo paused.

“Before, let Pontis and me write letters home, and deliver them. Please. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

Laszlo’s hand wavered along the half-opened door. Outside, the sunlight gathered on the yellow hills. Then he drew it closed. “Right,” he said. “Take your time.”

Varia took a step toward him. Laszlo looked at the floor.

“Thank you,” she said, and then hurried upstairs.

Pontis smiled and nodded at Laszlo. Laszlo nodded in return.

Then Pontis went to the kitchen and sat at the table, where he proceeded to write three letters to the three people he loved most in the world.

#

Laszlo left at noon, passing back into the Lowoods.

Pontis and Varia accepted Hummel’s offer of rations and clean water. He saw them out and watched from the porch as they walked northwest across the hills, the girl fastened to Varia’s back, in the direction of the granary ruins, dipping and reappearing until they were no more than line segments on the horizon.

When he was alone, Hummel stood for a long time in his dark foyer, drumming his fingers on the old brass clock and staring at the space where the floor met the stairs. The harsh afternoon sunlight leaked through the curtains, and the dry heat of the plains wrestled its way through the walls. It had been a particularly hot summer and showed no signs of relenting.

Finally he looked up. “Alef,” he said. “Play Odjen’s Saudade Sonata.”

The music issued from the hidden speakers throughout the house.

Hummel shuffled down the hall. “And bring me a bottle of proof,” he said.

The Sonata’s opening was measured, notes trickling like raindrops through a canopy. Hummel eyed the empty table in his study, where the girl had lain. He stood at his bookshelf and tapped his glasses. He found himself needing to adjust his vision more and more lately. But what did he expect? At a hundred and twenty four years old, it was a miracle he could see anything at all.

He found the book he was looking for on an upper shelf. “Alef,” he said. “Row eight, thirteenth from the left.”

Alef fetched the book and delivered it into Hummel’s hands.

He brought it to the table and sat. As he did, Alef set a full bottle of proof and a glass beside him.

Hummel dragged his aching hand across the title engraved in the book’s leather cover. The Warden of Nonk’non. He had not thought about the book in fifty years. Until he read the words carved into the chest of a little girl with no eyes. Then it all came rushing back.

He tapped his glasses and turned to the first page. The Sonata built momentum, the piano striking deep chords, the strings swelling. He felt his old heart churn. Within a paragraph he confirmed that his memory of the book was accurate. Briefly, he thought of his youth, of the farm out west and the gentle people who raised him. He was right to withhold what he knew from his guests; they were only children themselves, really, and there was nothing they could do. It was one thing to seek closure for the girl, or themselves. It was another to stop what was coming.

The Semaphore had been gone centuries.

There was nothing that anyone could do.

Hummel turned the page. His hands trembled more with each line he read. Odjen’s Sonata turned sour in his ears, the instruments clashing. At one point he brushed the glass aside with his hand, sending it rolling off the table and thudding to the floor—where Alef promptly spirited it out of sight—and he drank his proof straight from the bottle.