A Fortress of Pebbles

“Eight years ago,” said Tassadu, speaking more to Aissaba than to the twins it seemed, “we were given the same choice you’ll be given – to put on the brown robes and begin studying under the Master of Maps with the other kids your age. Or to walk back through the gates – to leave the way you came.”

The twins exchanged a glance. Whatever information passed between them, though, was impossible to intercept.

“When you pick the brown robes,” said Tassadu, “you get assigned a ‘parent.’ It’s all part of the ancient lottery system – and it just so happens that I was assigned to the Master of Language, and Aissaba was assigned to one of his head scribes.” He indicated the woman at the stove with his talon.

Aissaba found herself swimming in nostalgia. Had it really been eight years? Her mother stirred the pot of noodles with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she could see something bright and beautiful that no one else could. It was an expression Aissaba hadn’t seen on her face in years.

Aissaba remembered the first time she’d seen her, walking out of the Spire of Masteries with the biggest smile on her face, holding the brown robes out to her. She had seemed to float across the grass, like her feet didn’t have to worry about gravity.

Aissaba blinked, realizing that the Johnson’s kitchen was fading, replaced by the green grass of the Fortress courtyard. She brought back the musty Montana kitchen by shoving the other memories down deep, where they belonged.

But they’d all seen. Orion and Cassandra were watching her curiously while she dabbed at one of her eyes with the sleeve of her robes.

“At the Fortress,” said Tassadu, “you study for one year in each of the Halls – maps, life, mind, and language. Then, you spend two years writing a thesis, and after that, you get to do whatever you want. You can even go back to Earth, if you like.” (He omitted the small detail about getting your Fortress memories scrubbed if you do.) “Most people choose to become scribes under one of the Masters – and there’s a whole scribe hierarchy that I won’t bore you with. But basically, Aissaba’s mom held the rank of Candidate Master – meaning that she was next in line if anything were to happen to the Master of Language. But two years ago, when we were in the middle of our theses… something happened.”

Although Aissaba didn’t love where the conversation was heading, there was no denying that the kids were fascinated. Tassadu paused and gave Aissaba the chance to continue. She found, though, that there was a mysterious lump in her throat, like a pebble in her windpipe.

Cassandra must have sensed that something was wrong because she rested her head on Aissaba’s shoulder and wrapped both arms around Aissaba’s bicep. This only made the pebble grow larger. Aissaba’s free hand was stroking Cassandra’s hair, and she wasn’t sure when she’d started.

Cassandra’s small voice at her arm said, “Our mom used to read to us.”

Bang, bang, bang, went the gun. Through the kitchen window, Aissaba could see Mr. Johnson unloading the entire clip – feet shoulder width apart, one behind the other. Not that she knew anything about firearms, but it seemed like he knew what he was doing.

On the window sill were plants, dead ones, Aissaba realized. Above the fridge were stacks of dusty books. Through the doorway to the living room, she could see that dusty books and dead plants were recurring themes in the Johnson residence. Dead plants behind the couch. Dusty books on the coffee table. Walls lined with crowded bookshelves, draped in brown creeping vines.

“Where do you think your mom would be right now?” said Aissaba.

“Probably in her office,” said Orion, scraping designs with his fork in the mac and cheese residue.

“Or at the hospital with grandpa,” said Cassandra. “He has brain cancer.”

“If her dad is dying,” said Aissaba, “it makes sense that she wouldn’t have much time to read to you.”

“It’s dad’s dad,” said Orion. “They don’t exactly get along, though. So mom visits him.”

“When he dies, the land goes to dad,” said Cassandra. In a half-hearted dad-voice: “And one day, the two of you will have to fight to the death over it.”

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang – unloading another clip. Outside, a light snow was beginning to fall, flakes tapping the window glass. Instead of coming inside, though, he started to reload yet again, smoke and steam swirling around him.

“What’s he practicing for?” said Tassadu.

Somehow, Aissaba knew the answer already.

“The end of the world,” said the twins.