The Semaphore

Mondagreen spun around. He did not know who he was expecting to see—A member of the security patrol? An alarmed resident?—but it definitely wasn’t what he saw.

A boy, five or six years old, stood on the other side of the iron fence. His hair was cropped in a straight line across his forehead, his clothes puce and ochre with silver buckles, his leather shoes so shiny it appeared he might have just put them on for the first time. Beside him, a small dog jounced excitedly, its eyes concealed behind a tuft of white fur, its nub of a tail wagging.

Mondagreen considered simply ignoring the boy and sprinting off before he could tell anyone what he’d seen. But the boy might shriek or run to his parents, and any stealth Mondagreen had in his advantage would be squandered.

“Are you a pirate?” the boy asked, his freckled nose wrinkling with curiosity.

“No,” Mondagreen whispered, crouching and peering around to make sure there was no one approaching. “Well…kind of, actually.”

“You look like a pirate,” said the boy with a crooked grin, his little hands clasping the bars of the iron fence. “Except you don’t have an eye patch. Or a boat.”

“I got lucky with my eyes,” Mondagreen said. “Though I do have a boat.”

“Where is it?” The boy looked around as if the boat might be nearby.

“At the ocean.” Mondagreen brought a finger to his lips. “Could we keep this a little quieter?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you hiding from someone?”

“No,” Mondagreen whispered. “I mean, yes actually. My friend and I are playing a game. And right now it’s my turn to hide. So you can’t make any noise or he’ll know where I am.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“My friend?”

“Who’s looking for you?”

“Oh, my friend. Yeah, um…My buddy, uh, Pontis. He’s close, I know it. You need to help me stay hidden.”

“What happens if he finds you?”

Mondagreen rubbed his face. “He wins the game,” he said.

“Is Pontis a pirate too?”

“He sure is.” Mondagreen looked over toward the cobblestone street and the yards beyond. “I gotta go now,” he whispered. “It was nice chatting with you.”

“I want to play as well,” said the boy. “I’ll hide, and you have to find me.”

Mondagreen took a slow breath. “Maybe later,” he said. “Right now I need to, you know, finish this round.”

The boy stared blankly at Mondagreen for a second, and then threw his head back. “Pontis!” he screamed as loud as he could. “Pontis!”

Mondagreen cringed and grabbed the iron bars of the fence. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Keep your voice down.”

“If you won’t let me play, I’ll keep yelling, and Pontis will find you,” the boy said.

“Alright, alright,” Mondagreen raised his palms in appeasement. “You can play.”

“Good,” said the boy, his grin returning. “Let’s play in my yard.”

Mondagreen blinked at the boy. “In your yard?”

“Yes. It has all the best hiding places. You’ll never find me in here. Come round the front and I’ll let you in.”

Mondagreen shook his head. “Sorry. That’s not a good idea.”

“Pontis!” the boy shrieked. “Pontis!!!”

“Okay. Fine. Just be fucking quiet.” Mondagreen glanced out at the street.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” the boy said.

“Sorry. You’re right… Are your parents home?”

“They’re at work, in the city. My nanny, Jula, has gone to the store. She always takes ages, but when she’s back she can play as well. Though she isn’t very good at games.”

Mondagreen looked up at the old, stately house. “Okay,” he said. “Alright. One round in the yard, okay? But that’s it, then I need to go.”

“Great,” the boy grinned cheerily, starting toward the front of the gate.

The little white dog watched Mondagreen from behind its bangs.

Mondagreen reconsidered making a run for it, cutting through the lawns and gardens in the direction of the city. But this boy, with his satin clothes and shiny shoes, would scream, and draw attention. Mondagreen would be lucky to make it across the street before he was apprehended. It made more sense for him to be a little patient, wait until the boy hid and then make a run for it.

The boy unclasped the front gate. As Mondagreen stepped out from the side yard, two people emerged from a house across the street. A pair of men, each in a long gown, descending the steps of a grand stone porch and turning down the street toward Mondagreen.

Mondagreen hurried in through the gate and concealed himself behind the house. The little white dog sniffed around his feet. He heard the gate close, and the bolt turn, and a moment later the boy appeared.

“You smell bad,” he said.

“I know,” said Mondagreen.

“What’s in your satchel?”

“Work stuff.”

“Is that a real sword?”

“No. It’s a toy.”

“May I see it?”

“Later.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mondagreen.”

“That’s a weird name.” The boy made a face.

“I agree. What’s yours?”

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“I’m Malory Dezergray Abroghast.”

Mondagreen blenched. “…Malory?”

“Yes,” said the boy. “I was named after the Demiurge. Most of my friends are named Malory, too. Everyone calls me Dez.”

“I see.” Mondagreen reflected on this. A city that named its children after a legendary embodiment of evil… Suddenly, the flowers and manicured lawns and graceful willows took on a darker hue. When he had first crossed under the wall, Mondagreen could not understand what Peta had meant when he said that the lives of the people in Salò were better by some measure than the lives of the people on the other side. But now, looking at this boy in his satin with his horrifying namesake, Mondagreen understood something about what he had meant.

He peeked out briefly at the street. “So, Dez. Are you gonna hide or what?”

“You hide first,” said Dez.

Mondagreen fought an urge to grab the kid and throw him over the fence. If he were ten years older, Mondagreen would have no compunction with knocking the boy unconscious and being on his way. Instead he took a slow breath.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m gonna hide first. So turn around and count to a hundred.”

“I’ll count to ten,” said Dez. “A hundred is too high. I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Alright. Ten.”

Mondagreen waited for Dez to turn around. Ten seconds was not enough time to make a suitable getaway. He would have to play along for now. There were some shrubs along the side of the house, trimmed into perfect cubes, and Mondagreen stood beside one, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

The little dog ran up and sat at his feet.

“Ten!” Dez called, turning around. He walked immediately over to Mondagreen. “You’re bad at hiding,” he said.

“No shit,” said Mondagreen, nearly gagging at the irony.

Dez frowned. “Don’t be rude to me.”

“Sorry.” Mondagreen cleared his throat. “So is it your turn to hide now?”

“Yes.” Dez pointed toward the middle of the yard. “You stand there and close your eyes and count to fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“Yes. I get fifty because you’re older.”

“Fine with me,” Mondagreen said. “But I’m going to count in my head, okay?”

Dez shrugged. “I guess that’s alright.”

Mondagreen stood in the middle of the yard, where he could see through the fence to the street—and be seen from the street as well. He pretended to close his eyes.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m counting.”

Dez ran around the far side of the house, diving under the shrubs there and shimming out of sight. Mondagreen waited a few seconds to make sure he didn’t change his mind, and then started toward the gate. He peered out through the iron bars at the street. As far as he could tell, there was no one around. He eyed the bolt, which had no rust that he could discern, and so likely would not whine when he opened it. He took a final glance back into the yard to make sure Dez was still hiding, and then drew back the bolt, opened the gate, checked that he still had the satchel and his katana, and exited the yard. He guided the gate closed gently behind him, making sure not to clank it.

When he turned around there was a woman standing there. She was young, wearing a long skirt and shawl and carrying a basket with produce in both hands.

The nanny, Mondagreen realized, back from the store.

She gawped at Mondagreen, her eyes and mouth wide.

Mondagreen turned back to the gate, struck so dumb at being caught that for a moment he considered simply strolling back into the yard and resuming his game with Dez as if nothing was the matter. He saw Dez appear from around the house, his little face scrunched in anger, soil covering his satin clothes. Mondagreen—despite his many years of thinking on his feet—found himself unable to move. Until Dez threw his head back, balled his fists, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Pontis!!!”

Mondagreen spun around and took off, startling the nanny—who spilled her groceries on the cobblestone. He ran across the street and into another yard, cutting through the shrubs and hedges and leaping over a sculpture that seemed to be half of an upside-down face. He sprinted past more enormous houses covered in ivy, their austere facades seeming to track him as he went.

“Pontis!!!” Dez’s voice rang, louder and louder it seemed the further Mondagreen ran.

“Pontis!!! Pontis!!!”

The voice followed him along as he barreled through a bush of fully-bloomed Rare Cordelia Nymph, whose thorns tore at his clothes. He emerged into a cul-de-sac, the three homes bordering it all fenced away so that there was nowhere for him to go except directly down the middle of the street, which was what he did, panting and sweating, voices behind him and ahead—adult voices—commanding him to stop, and another voice, seeming to come from all around, repeating the same sound in endless recitation.

“Pontis!!!”

“Pontis!!!”

#

The Lorain—the veiled riders who saved Mondagreen’s life on the plains of Senescence—hailing far from the west and north on the frigid shores of the Great Sealake known as Broken Bow, were granted access first through the gate from Salò and then over the Jeston Bridge onto the island city of Osseon.

They came, they said, bearing urgent news, and demanded an immediate audience with the Curator of the Museum of Arts and Artifact. The Security Force patrol called ahead to inform their superiors of the Lorain’s arrival, making specific mention of the fact that it appeared they had travelled with their Sage, an occurrence so unusual that only one person alive in Osseon could recall the last time such a visit had taken place.

The first people to greet them—other than the Security Forces who manned the checkpoints at the wall and the bridge—were part of a welcome committee sent by Osseon’s governing body, who received them outside the city’s Ziggurat—the tallest building in Osseon besides Malory’s stratospheric palace—where the boulevard flared into a wide square. The committee was instructed to welcome their guests with reverence, seeing as such visits were rare and the Lorain had proven reliable trade partners and formidable allies in the skirmishes with the Cadish tribes over the previous century.

It was still early in the morning, and the streets were quiet save for the hoof beats of the Lorain’s appaloosas and the clatter of the carriage’s wheels as they sped down the boulevard and stopped before the committee.

“Welcome to Osseon, friends—the Garden of the Well,” said Malory Rega Sul, known simply as Rega, the committee’s hastily assigned overseer and occasional ambassador to points west, when such need occurred. “You must be weary from such a journey. We have arranged rooms in our finest hotel, and a meal to dazzle…”

The two Lorain riders dismounted without a word, and stood facing the committee. Their red veils concealed their faces, unmoving in the still air, their long red garments covering every inch of skin. A third rider climbed gracefully down from the carriage and opened the carriage door.

The committee strained to get a look inside.

A person emerged. They were clad in white robes across which intricate red lines flowed, spelling shapes and symbols too complicated for the eye to follow. They wore a long white veil, adorned also with red lines, and, unlike the riders, wore a tall white miter that came to a point. The person stepped silently down from the carriage and approached the committee.

Rega felt suddenly nervous, and when the person in white stopped before him, he was not sure, for a moment, what to say.

“I…We…You are welcome here,” he stammered, his face reddening.

The Sage’s eyes, concealed behind their veil, seemed to bore into Rega’s mind. “We need to speak to Hobbes Nicole Penate,” they said, their voice soft, accented like the wind on a wide lake.

Rega cleared his throat. “Would you not like to rest first? Certainly whatever it is you need to discuss can wait until later in the…”

“We need to speak to Curator Hobbes Nicole Penate,” the Sage repeated, their robes spread around their feet like roots.

“Yes, well…” Rega glanced at the other committee members, who averted their eyes. “Curator Penate is a very busy woman,” Rega said. “She does not take visitors. But President Logora will be happy to receive you. She already knows you are here. I can bring you to her office right away.”

The Sage stood perfectly still—so still that it seemed almost as if there was no living creature beneath the veil. “Tell Hobbes Nicole that Kamê Astrelon is here to see her. Tell her that Richard was right. Tell her that we missed one.”

Rega wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yes, alright. I will deliver your message. But as I said… er… Right away.” He turned and headed off across the square toward the entrance of the Museum of Art and Artifact, its massive pillars awash in early sunlight. The committee followed him, desperate for a reprieve from the daunting presence of the Sage Kamê Astrelon.

The Lorain remained where they were, standing patiently without speaking. At one point, Kamê Astrelon turned their head and looked up at Malory’s palace, which loomed at the northern end of the square, its precipice so high that from its base it appeared to extend infinitely into the sky. It was windowless, its exterior made of dark, coarse dirt raised from deep in the earth. Though the Sage’s face was concealed behind their veil, the sneer they presented up at the dark palace was palpable; the loathing they had for it seemed to tighten the air over the city.

Three minutes later, Rega and the committee emerged from the Museum and hurried back toward the Lorain.

“Curator Penate insists that you come see her at once,” Rega said, out of breath. “Forgive me for the delay.” He gestured toward the Museum.

The Sage Kamê Astrelon signaled silently and invisibly to their riders. One of them removed an iron trunk from the carriage, four feet long and two across, and carried it behind Kamê Astrelon as they followed the committee up the long, wide staircase into the Museum. The other two Lorain riders remained in the square, unmoving, even as the sun rose higher and the people of Osseon began to fill the streets, staring at them as if they had come from another world.