“We both got shells. That’s why we get along so well. Spittin’ fire is easy enough, but we don’t—we don’t trust people.”
Some time later, Constance found Lamont sitting atop an outcropping not far from the boundary of the garden. The only visible indication of the tower’s cylindrical hull was the thin, vine-like columns that stretched from the mossy floor to the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Beyond them seemed to be empty space, vivid and three-dimensional, unbroken by any glare or reflection. The outcropping looked something like a giant, squat toadstool made out of coral, the largest in a cluster. Not far in the distance was the sound of falling hammers, laughing children, women’s voices joined in song. It was accompanied by the subtle sounds of the garden, quiet pipings and rattlings and tinkling chimes, every one pleasant.
Lamont was hunched over, his forearms resting on his knees, his brow furrowed as his eyes looked intently into the black expanse outside. A cigarette dangled from the center of his lips, burning down, forgotten.
“You took one for the team back there,” Constance said, settling herself down on a smaller mushroom-like feature that was just large enough to serve as a makeshift stool. “I’m obliged.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lamont said around his cigarette, not moving.
“Sure you do,” Constance prodded him. “We both got shells. That’s why we get along so well. Spittin’ fire is easy enough, but we don’t—we don’t trust people.”
“I don’t trust any of this,” Lamont said, looking around. He tugged the stub of his cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it into the strange quasi-foliage nearby to emphasize his point. Constance could just glimpse the smoking refuse being cheerfully absorbed by the pastel carpet. “Nothing is ever the way it looks on the surface. Good things, doubly so. This is all some kind of sleight-of-hand, and the maddening thing is we’ve got no choice but to play along.”
“What about your feelings?” Constance asked. “Do you trust those?”
The newspaperman chuckled cynically. “Those least of all, love.” Then, he seemed to pick up on something in the young colonist’s tone and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Why do you ask?”
Constance took a deep breath. She tried to remember what had happened after she’d ventured into the grove earlier that day. She had been acting on idle curiosity, wondering if perhaps she could find some substance or mechanism that would explain the effect it seemed to have on people. Mostly, she was just trying to be alone. Miss Anna had come to her in the morning and explained that she hoped to resume Wednesday night services to help preserve routine despite the abrupt change in setting. She had suggested that perhaps Constance might help put the younger children to bed if the service went late. And then she had walked away. The encounter had ignited a smoldering irritation in Constance that, by lunchtime, had become a bed of hot coals in her belly. Had anyone stopped to consider, she asked herself, that Constance was a Goddamn orphan? She had pulled herself out of the dust to shake her fist at the cold and uncaring stars, had worked herself raw for the chance to get close enough to pop one in the nose. And now she was, what, a nursemaid?
Happy Halloween from our own little Ziggurat
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john