When he opened the cell door, she wordlessly extended her wrists. He attached the loose handcuffs. Then he turned around and she followed him to the stairs leading out.
Flora had become used to him waking her up. He no longer had to absorb expletives or victimized looks, only stoic compliance. She also didn’t limp or hold her wrists or scratch her head maniacally. She must be healing, to the extent one could heal from the sessions.
The sessions had finished several weeks ago now. Any experienced interrogator could tell she had been broken on the first day, but Jeroen and Thorpe had continued probing. It was senseless, yet Mehta had no choice but to go along with it. Flora had done countless drawings of the Spoke talisman. It was her anchor, what she held onto to stay sane. Every time Mehta would have to squirrel it away in his desk upstairs to prevent Thorpe or Jeroen from finding it and using it as another excuse to waste everyone’s time on another session.
Mehta had been tortured once. During that time dreams often blurred with reality. Everything that flashed through your mind that wasn’t pain was held onto, real or imaginary, but the memory of it would sometimes get dislocated. Flora might not even remember doing the drawings, or perhaps she thought them a pleasant dream.
Once out of the tower, away from the toiling industry of the Barnyard, they walked south on a path made of hard-packed snow. It dropped them onto Carlton Avenue, which they traversed in silence. The railroad folks didn’t like Flora and Mehta being seen out in public, so they tended to frequent the lesser-used streets of Belmont for their walks.
And the streets were indeed quiet today with the exception of a few kids pulling sleds. It didn’t snow much in Seeville. When it did, the city came to a standstill because bike access was limited. People tended to stay home and take the day off.
Mehta didn’t like kids. They reminded him of his childhood, and remembering his childhood put him in a sour mood.
“Did you get much snow in Asheville?” Flora asked, breaking the silence.
“No, not much. Never more than a few inches.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Asheville was surrounded by many warring tribes. You’d probably call them fever bandits. They were too aggressive, too savage. It was time to leave.”
“The other day, I thought you said you defeated the neighboring tribes.”
“We did.” He looked at her and flared his nostrils in warning.
She looked down.
She appeared on the carousel of faces in his mind. Her face was locked into one of the more memorable expressions of anguish he recalled from the sessions.
Was there no ridding himself of this torment? The only thing that seemed to suppress the images was when he offered some small grace to Flora, some modicum of relief for all she’d suffered.
He decided it would do no harm to answer her question. If satisfying her curiosity would offer her some solace, perhaps it would offer him some relief as well.
“There’s more to it than that,” he said. “My tribe, the Asheville tribe, we were proud. Above all we believed in justice. The elders would spend many days teaching us about justice—as many as you would about math or reading. Then, the wars began—and seemed to never end. Other tribes wanted what we had—Old World shelter, books, a seemingly better life. You see, there were bandits all the way from Knoxville to Charlotte. These tribes were boxed in by fever lands, so we had to contend with all of them. We suffered greatly.
“In fact, we had almost perished altogether when a great leader rose within our ranks. His name was Garth, and I was one of his principal deputies. He was a passionate, rebellious sort. He rallied us together and taught us to fight. Many believed in him because of his zeal for justice, because of his ability to live his life in accordance with what we were taught. He made us all sign a contract—a contract that we would fight until death to save Asheville, so long as we did so honorably. With our lives in peril, no one could say no to such a contract. Yet many would have fled without it.
“With Garth leading us, we came back from the brink of annihilation. But years passed this way, in a constant war with the tribes. Eventually we began taking it to the tribes, raiding them, taking supplies. They became wary of us. Then one time they invaded Asheville and killed some of our woman and children. This one tribe, they ignored us warriors altogether and went right for what we cared for most.”
He took a breath and closed his eyes, allowing the carousel of faces to complete another turn.
“When Garth’s woman was taken, that’s when Garth changed. He made us go after the tribes with zeal, like never before. We took all their children, butchered them and impaled their bodies on posts, and showcased these posts on buildings on the periphery of Asheville. This stopped the tribes, but it didn’t stop us. We raided more. We raped. We maimed. We tortured. We murdered.”
He closed his eyes and again waited for the carousel to pass. Then he opened them again. They were standing on a corner in Belmont. Mehta didn’t know where. Flora was listening attentively with a mixture of disgust and curiosity.
He regained his bearings and began walking toward old town Belmont. “This way,” he said.
“So?” Flora asked. “Did you leave after that? After you had defeated the other tribes?”
“It became so most of us couldn’t sleep. We couldn’t bear to have children, for we knew what might become of them. Many committed suicide. We realized that although Garth may have led us to victory, he didn’t fulfill his contract. He didn’t defend us honorably. Some of us held on to this principle, and it grew into a great rift in the community. So a group of us rose up and killed Garth.”
“You see,” he explained to Flora, “all contracts must be honored—and enforced.”
Flora looked a bit befuddled. “So then you left, after Garth was killed?”
“Yes. The memories of what had happened were too many. They persisted still, even after Garth was gone. But also because, when we killed Garth, we turned Asheville to ash.”
He looked at Flora then, his eyes blazing. Many would wilt at that point in the story. Many would melt into a puddle in the snow. Flora was indeed taken aback by his story, but not as much as others had been. In fact, she seemed to take it mostly in stride, nodding in understanding. Perhaps it was because she’d also been through so much. Perhaps it was because torture and maiming and death were characters that made regular appearances in the theater of her life.
Flora asked, “so you’re here simply because you like to keep contracts? Does that seem like justice to you?”
He was surprised by the question. His mind seemed to go to mush for a moment. He couldn’t think of a coherent response. Instead he said, “I don’t need any lessons in morality from you.”
“Maybe you do.”
“I’m not sure I could even believe you. You’re a pathological liar.”
“I am not.”
“Why do you refer to this SLS prisoner you seek as your cousin?”
“Because… he is my…”
“Come now, Flora. I may be from the Smoky Mountains, but my mind is not made of stone, nor clouded by smoke. I saw your report to Darkwind and Luna about the retcher incident. It’s clear this person you wish to find is more than just a cousin. I asked around Grand Caverns and found out you lost your husband Granger in the raids a few years back. I have seen you trace this name on the talisman. It’s him you seek, isn’t it?”
She looked at him, furious but helpless, trying to find some way around his argument.
“But why does it matter, I wondered? Why would you cover that up? And then I realized you have a husband already. You wouldn’t want him to find out. So I guess add infidelity to lying. I’m sure you’ll have many takers for your class on morality.”