Why have I let myself forget, why, in a moment of weakness, did I give in? I can never forget that her beauty is laced with poison, that her lips veil twin rows of knives, that her heart is enclosed by a razor- sharp rib cage. She is impossible to me, untouchable, unreachable.
My hand on her elbow clamps down hard, with anger, with loathing, sinking deep into her bloodless fl esh. But she misinterprets the force of my emotions and lifts her face to the night sky, shaking more fervently. And I realize how, from the outside, on the other side of the mask, how easy it is for loathing to be mistaken for longing.
With dawn soon approaching, I walk Ashley June back to her room.
We make arrangements to meet tomorrow after dusk— she wants to come down and get dressed in the library so we can head to the Gala together, linked arm in arm. “It's going to be so amazing,”
she gushes as I leave.
I head back to the library. Within minutes, the shutters come down. I wait a while longer to be safe, then head outside.
I'm thirsty again and in need of another wash. Stepping outside under the brightening skies, I glance at the main building to make sure the shutters are down. And then I'm making for the Dome, double time. This time I have three empty plastic bottles, tied together with a short length of twine, slung over my shoulder. The bottles bump against one another, making random hol ow sounds like the thumps of a drunken drummer. The Dome hasn't descended yet; I keep saying now and pointing at the Dome. Now. It doesn't move. Now.
Stil doesn't heed my command; the glass wal s don't budge.
Halfway there, a hum vibrates in the ground, barely discernible at fi rst, then unmistakable. The Dome wal s descend, the circular opening at the top widening as the glass wal sinks into the ground.
Dawn light plays off the moving glass, swirling like ribbons around the plains in a menagerie of color. And then the lights tail off, the humming stops. The Dome is gone.
I stand about a hundred yards from the pond and wait. It's better not to take any chances: despite what they must now know about me, they might still charge out of their mud huts (at least that heper girl, anyway) ready to spear me. That's the thing with these hepers: they can be so unpredictable, like zoo animals gone wild.
The front door to a mud hut suddenly swings open. A male The front door to a mud hut suddenly swings open. A male heper— young, about my age— stumbles out, bed- headed, legs rickety and stiff as it makes its way to the pond. It doesn't see me; it's squinting against the harsh morning light.
It's not until the heper splashes water on its face and is gulping water from cupped hands that its eyes drift up at me. Its hands instantly drop to its sides, water fal ing down to its feet. It beats a hasty retreat toward the mud huts, then suddenly stops as if catching itself. Glances back. Sees I'm stil standing, that I haven't moved at all .
I raise my hands, palms facing forward, hoping to convey: I mean no harm.
It turns tail and begins to fl ee.
“Wait! Stop!”
And it does. Over its shoulder, eyes wide, face ridden with fear.
But with curiosity as wel . As with the heper girl yesterday, feelings pour off its face without restraint, like a zoo animal shamelessly scratching its behind before a crowd of derisive spectators. These expressions: so extreme, fl owing like a waterfal . It stares at me with wide eyes.
“Sissy!” it yel s, and it's my turn to take a few steps back. In shock. The thing talks. “Sissy!” it says louder, the infl ections coming out clearly even in that short word.
“No, I—,” I stammer, uncertain what to say. Sissy? Why is it cal ing me a sissy?
“Sissy,” it shouts urgently, but its tone is bereft of ridicule.
It's a neutral tone, but with a hint of urgency, as if cal ing for help.
“I don't understand,” I say because, wel , I don't understand.
“I just want water.” I gesture toward the pond. “Wa- ter.”
“Sissy,” it shouts again, and a door to a mud hut fl ies open.
It's the heper girl, slightly disheveled, its eyes grabbing at alertness, fl icking off sleepiness. It surveys the scene quickly, soaking in the scene. Its eyes land on mine for a second, fl icks behind me, then returns to me again.
“It's okay, David,” it says to the fi rst heper. “Remember what I told you yesterday. He won't hurt us. He's like us.”
I'm thunderstruck. These hepers speak. They are intel igent, not savages.
The heper girl walks toward me, strides long and confi dent.
As it walks past mud huts, doors open and more hepers come out, fol owing the heper girl. It stops in front of the pond. “Right?” it asks, staring at me.
all I can do is stare at it.
“Right?” it asks again, and for the fi rst time I realize it's wield-ing a long ax in its left hand.
“Right,” I say.
We stare at each other for a long time.
“Have you come back for more water?” it asks.
“Yes.”
A group of four other hepers— all male— are gathered behind the heper girl, peering at me. I see one whisper to another, then a nod in agreement.
“Help yourself,” the heper girl says.
My thirst urges me along. I kneel by the edge of the pond and drink with cupped hands, keeping them all , especial y the heper girl, in my vision. Then I fi l the bottles with water, cap them off. I hesitate.
“Are you going to undress again?” it asks. This seems to relax the group behind it; they smile, look knowingly at one another. “If so, don't forget to take your undies with you this time.”
Over the years, I trained myself not to blush. But there's no stopping this one. A surge of heat hits my face, heat humming off it in droves.
The hepers see it, and they suddenly become quiet. Then the heper girl steps forward, and the group fol ows closely behind. It steps right up to me, an arm's length away, close enough for me to see the faint freckles sprinkled across the bridge of its nose. Its hand touches my face, pressing down on my cheek; even the tips of its fi ngers are cal used. It nods and beckons the others to approach.
They do, slowly, encircling me. I don't move. They reach out to me, their hands extending toward my face, then touch my cheek, my neck, poking, probing. I let them.
Then they step back. The heper girl is still standing in front of me, the knife no longer in hand. And for the fi rst time, I see something that is not fear or curiosity in its expression. I don't know what it is. Not exactly. But the smal fi res burning in her eyes are gentle and warm, like embers of a fi replace.
“My name's Sissy. What's yours?”
I look at her blankly. “What's a ‘name'?” I ask.
“You don't know what your name is?” a heper in the back asks.
It's the youn gest of the lot, a short boy, maybe ten years old, puck-ish. “My name's Ben. How can you not have a name?”
“He didn't say he doesn't know his name. He said he doesn't know what a name is.” The heper who says this stands off to the side alone. Its mouth is skewed at a slant on one side, as if inadvertently caught by a fi shhook. It towers above the others, as skinny as it is tal , as if, in the aging pro cess, its limbs were merely stretched without addition of muscle or fat.
The short heper boy turns to me. “What do people cal you?”
“Cal me? It depends.”
“Depends?”
“Depends on where I am. Teachers cal me one thing, my coach cal s me another. Depends.”
The girl heper grabs the nearest heper by the arm, brings him forward. “This is Jacob.” It strides over to the next. “This one next to him is David, the one who saw you fi rst this morning. Standing off on his own there is Epaphroditus. We cal him ‘Epap.' ”
I run those sounds in my head: David, Jacob, Epap. Odd sounds, foreign. David and Jacob look young, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. Epap is older, maybe seventeen.
“You mean designation. What's my designation?”
“No,” the heper girls says, shaking her head. “What does your family cal you?”
I'm about to tel her that I don't have a family, that they never called me by any “name” . . . when I stop. A memory suddenly surfaces, faint and crackly in my mind. The voice of my mother, singing, in broken, eclipsed fragments: just a melody at fi rst, the exact words indecipherable. But then a surfacing takes place, her words taking shape, a phrase here and there, still obscure, but— Gene.
“My name is Gene,” I say, and it is as much a revelation to me as an introduction to them.
They show me around the vil age. They've made the best of their lot. A smal vegetable farm around back, fruit trees dotted around the grounds. Laundry lines hung by a training ground, spears and knives and daggers littered about the sandy lot. Inside the mud huts, I'm surprised by the amount of sunlight pouring in. The roofs are punctured by large holes like a sieve. So strange, the absence of a barrier between them and the sky. A cool breeze blows through the huts.
“We only get the breeze in the daytime,” the heper girl says, noticing my enjoyment. “Once the Dome goes up, the air goes still .”
Each of the mud huts is only sparsely decorated, drawings and paintings tacked on to wal s, a few bookshelves lined with a col ection of threadbare books. But it's what sits in the middle of each of the huts that is most startling, almost brazen in its derring- do. A “bed.” Not just some blankets tossed to the ground, but a solid wooden structure with legs and a foundation. Not a sleep- hold in sight.
Outside, beyond the perimeter of the Dome, sits a box structure made of metal, about the size of a smal carriage.
A green light is blinking from a smal lamp sitting atop it.
“What's that?” I ask, indicating.
“The Umbilical,” David says.
“The what?”
“C'mon, might as wel head over. Looks like something's arrived.”
“What?” I ask.
“Come. You'l see.”
