The River

It was all the town had talked about for days. The lessons in school stopped, the children only wanted to talk about it. And even if the teachers wanted to try to continue with their lessons, the truth was that it was all they wanted to talk about too. Nearly all work stopped in the shops, restaurants, and the two small wood mills. The entire town was buzzing with questions.

Where did it come from?

Has it always been there?

What does it mean?

These questions and more were all about the river. The Pathos river, normally wide, deep, and flowing quietly by, was receding. For a summer, a winter, and now most of another summer there had been no rain. Along with failing crops and drying wells, it had also turned the Pathos into a smaller version of itself. Then one day stones appeared on the new, lower, bank of the river. As the river receded more and more additional stones were revealed, and soon it became apparent that they were not placed by nature but by someone, or something, on purpose. They formed a trail. But where did it lead? Soon even this question was answered as the mouth of a cave appeared along the steep stone bank of the opposite side of the river.

The stones led to the cave and stopped at the foot of a large metal door. The door was dirty, covered in eons of grime, mud, green algae and weeds. But still clearly visible was a large handle.

The question everyone wanted an answer to was, "Should we open it, and if so, who should do it?"

It was a small town, but a town full of personality.

And everyone had an opinion.

Opinions about Sarah, the grocers daughter and how she should wear her hair. Opinions on Neville, the mechanic and how he should lower his prices. Opinions about Reverend Samuel’s sermons and certainly his wife, Marie.

But most importantly and most recently, opinions on the Pathos River and the mysterious door.

Plastered all over town, on windows, on doors, on telephone poles:

RESIDENTS of BRAYTON!

TOWN HALL MEETING NOTICE

Residents are invited to attend a community meeting regarding the recent drying of the River and the discovery of a previously unknown door located at the riverbed.

Topics to be discussed:

-The sudden absence of water in the River

-The origin and purpose of the door

-Safety concerns and town response

-Whether the door should be opened

Your presence and input are important as we determine next steps together.

Date: June 10th

Time: 4pm

Location: Town Hall

All residents encouraged to attend.

—Town Council

Neville crashed through the door to the small three-room building his family called home, his hands still dark from the greasy machinery he worked on all day. The Harrow's were not rich by any measure, but neither were they the worst off in town. In fact they had three beds, something that many in the town would consider a luxury. One bed for Neville and Elara, one for their daughter Claire, and one for their younger son Arthur. All were currently in the common room of their house, the only room that was not a bathroom or bedroom.

"Elara! Have you seen this?" Neville held a copy of the town notice in his hands. "They're actually thinking about it! About opening that damn door!" He threw the notice onto the small table in the middle of the room. He similarly threw himself into one of the chairs which protested with a loud creak as his full weight sank into it. Claire and Arthur, who were already seated at the table, tried to hide the looks of surprise and curiosity on their faces.

Elara turned from the stove where she was tending to a pot of soup and laughed, "Oh Neville, you're so dramatic. Talk. Talk about it is all they want to do. It's all anyone is doing these days anyway. Why not everyone talk about it together at the Town Hall?" She pointed the wooden kitchen spoon at him and continued, "You say you never want to discuss town politics, but then when it comes down to it you're the first one to speak up!" Elara began to grin, she tried to look menacing but only succeeded in pressing her lips together while barely concealing a laugh.

"Oh, so you think this is funny?" Neville stood and walked over to the stove by Elara. He let the still-outstretched spoon hit his chest as if it were a dagger that she held instead of a spoon carved out of wood. "You got me." He grabbed the spoon from her hands, and fell laughing to the ground. "Children! Claire, Arthur! You must come save me! I've been stabbed through the heart by your mother with a delicious-smelling soup spoon! Arthur and Claire pushed back their chairs and ran to their father, falling on top of him and joining him in laughter.

The town was a buzz. More than normal. And the days moved slower than usual. It was only 5 days til the town meeting and they moved as slow as the river had evaporated. Every day inching forward to a conclusion. Every day opinions growing louder.

Finally, the day came.

On the day of the meeting, Joanne, the “town-crier” made it her mission to remind everyone.

As if they could forget.

Joanne was heavily involved in well… everything: school meetings and boards, though she had no children. Town party planning, beautification, and councils (mostly that she created). Library and the arts. Labor laws. Etc.

She was always saying things like, “so much to do”. The thing was, nobody asked her to do anything. And the truth was, if she didn’t do any of it, it probably would have gone by the wayside.

She was a busy body into everybody’s business but she knew how to get things done.

It was she that constantly bugged the town representatives to host a town meeting on the river-door situation.

In all honesty, she should be the Mayor. But alas, she was happily, the Mayors wife.

Mayor Bradley was a stoutly man. A man of few words. Constantly twitching his mustache in a very similar manner to a walrus. And occasionally twitching his very sensitive nose.

Mayor Bradley didn’t have to do much to get things done. His wife, the hummingbird would flit around and get things done before he blinked. His family were founders of the town and thus the Bradley name brought the respect and votes without him trying.

He dreaded this day. A day where he had to make speeches and … decisions. He was happy to leave all that to his wife. But, the day was here and it was unavoidable.

Joanne thought opening the door could be “unfortuitous” but he was actually curious. Course he had to remain impartial. That was his job, to listen and internally and externally summarize a pros and cons list the town presented. He did not like chaos. He hoped for order and not mayhem but he knew some people will be unhappy regardless.

Claire entered the Bradley mansion and once again was amazed at the difference between her family's humble house and the garishness of the Bradley's giant mansion. She hated the Bradley's ostentatiousness but hid it well every time she had to come work for them. Being only fifteen years old she did not work for the Bradleys full time, she still had school to tend to. But even working a few hours a few days a week helped to bolster her family's income; if she could help to put some extra food on the table then dealing with the Bradleys was a small price to pay. Entering through the servant's entrance in the east wing, Claire passed through the kitchen where the staff were currently preparing breakfast. Her stomach rumbled as the scents of eggs, bacon, and fresh bread pulled at her. Another cook was cutting up what seemed to be a mountain of fresh fruit. And coffee! Claire had never had coffee but the aroma of the brewing pot as she passed by smelled better than any drink she had ever had.

Passing through the kitchen and leaving the delightful sights and smells behind, Claire made her way to the laundry where she would spend the next few hours washing and rinsing clothes, hanging them on a line outside, and taking in dry clothes from the line outside, ironing and folding them, and putting them in the designated spots for one of the live-in maids to deliver into the Bradley's respective closets. As she entered the main laundry room she was delighted to see nobody else was currently working in there. She preferred to work alone, although on occasion she did enjoy when her favorite cook Jessica would sneak away from the kitchen to bring Claire a small portion of some food that wasn't up to the Bradley's standards. A misshapen bread roll, or perhaps the trimming off of a piece of roast beef that never made it to a plate.

Claire was in the middle of folding yet another of the mayor's shirts when she heard the unmistakable voice of the mayor's wife, Joanne, talking to someone else in a hushed tone in the room across from the laundry. Claire didn't recognize the other person's voice, and the fact that Joanne was speaking quietly was especially interesting. As far back as Claire could remember, the only way she had heard Joanne speak was like an army general barking orders. Claire put down the shirt mid-fold and began to listen.

"When I told you I owed you one, this isn't exactly what I had in mind!" the unknown voice said. Claire took a step closer to the wall and pressed her ear against it to hear better. "But I did say it, so now you say it. What is it you need me to do?" Claire thought the voice sounded familiar. It was a man, that she could tell, but there was something else she could not place. Through the wall his voice was muffled and hard to hear exactly what his voice sounded sounded like. But there was something there, a barely-detectable lilt, or some way of speaking that Claire was sure she recognized. But who? This town was small, but not so small that she should instantly recognize everyone by voice alone. Claire's thought process was interrupted by Joanne's unmistakable voice, even in a whisper Joanne was unparalleled in her ability to sound condescending and superior.

"In the meeting, I need you to do something for me." Joanne said.

"Well, I must say I'm not surprised it has to do with the door." the unknown voice said. The way he said "door", Claire thought, that's the key to who he is. The voice continued, "That blasted thing, I wish we'd never seen the thing."

"It's too late for that now, don't you think? I need you to support it. Opening it, I mean."

"What?", his voice became louder, "I just told you I wish the thing didn't exist!"

A moment of silence passed, and Claire could visualize Joanne's eye's narrowing as she stared down the man. One thing Claire did like about Joanne was her ability to get what she wanted, even if her methods were sometimes not to Claire's liking. On many occasions Claire had been on the receiving end of Joanne's unflinching and disapproving stare. It was, Claire had to admit, effective.

"Ok, fine. But that's it! Blank slate after this. We're even."

"That will have to do, I suppose. Just don't disappoint me. Get it done."

Sounds of footsteps click-clacking on the hallway tiles slowly fading away indicated to Claire that the conversation on the other side of the wall was over. She propped herself up on the counter of the laundry room and pondered the strange man's voice, trying to visualize the unknown face. Tall or short? Fat or skinny? And what was it about the way that he said "door" that almost brought his image to the front of her mind? Claire picked up one of Joanne's silk scarfs from the unfolded laundry pile and began running it through her hands, like a candy maker pulling taffy the bright red fabric passed from one hand to the other, slipping through her fingers.

One thing she was certain of, she would be attending that town hall meeting with even more curiosity now.

Tilia mostly tended to the greenhouse and gardens but weekly she would come into the Bradley mansion and prune and care for the indoor houseplants.

She was in the library adding aggregate to the Mother-in-Law’s Tongue mumbling to herself. She was annoyed at that Jessica cook girl telling her what to do. Jessica acted like she was Tilia’s boss.

“Oh Tilia, be a dear and cut some fresh mint, try not to get too many stems this time.”

Jessica was actually nice and would sneak Tilia tea and Tilia knew Jessica was just following orders from Carolann, the head cook, but she loathed being called dear and she loathed being told what to do in such a nice way multiple times a day. Just be direct and say this is what we need for the day or better yet don’t even talk to her and hand her a list.

That’s why she liked plants. They didn’t talk to you. Not with words anyways.

Everyone also knew, Tilia and her garden crew were strict about how each plant was harvested. They wouldn’t dare touch her “babies”. The only person in the house with as good of a green thumb as Tilia, was Joanne.

Joanne smelled like the flowering shrubs she used to create a fresh bouquet for the entryway. Every morning, Tilia would overhear Joanne speak lovingly to her gardenia bushes. Tilia respected Joanne for this. Everyone else in the house thought it unusual to speak to these rooted creatures that can’t speak back, but plants, like people, crave love.

Tilia was dusting the wide sword-like leaves and cooed to the variegated green plant- “you would never disrespect me, would you…”

She could swear the plant nuzzled closer to her hand.

One thing did strike her as odd. She never understood why Joanne Bradley was so insistent on having plants in every room. She understood Joanne loved plants as much as she did but Mayor Bradley was clearly affected by all these plants.

Every time someone even opened the door to the service entrance, Mayor Bradley’s super sensitive nose would twitch and if she was even five feet from him he’d sneeze and clear his throat.

He never complained to Joanne about it though.

“He’s a good man.” Tilia reflected to the snake plant.

Tilia learned to keep certain plants out of and away from his office and bedroom though. The Cattleya Orchids that once adorned his bedroom mantle gave him such swollen eyes. The jasmine bushes that once wafted such a nice aroma from the porch into the welcoming foyer, were moved to the large welcome iron gate on the outskirts of the property. Tilia took note. She seemed to be the only one who noticed. It seemed like the plants that required a bit more humidity, flustered him more. Around breakfast time, he even twitched his large mustache around Joanne as she flitted about.

Tilia’s stream of thoughts were interrupted by actual human voices coming through a vent. She rolled her eyes at first but then listened to the words being said and found it … peculiar.

“I will do it Joanne, but what I don’t get, is why you have been so outwardly adamant on being against opening the do-or.”

Tilia cocked her head to the side. She heard this voice before. The way he said “door” was familiar and odd. But where? She tapped her finger on the beautiful oriental blue ceramic pot rim as she thought hard.

“I have my reasons.” Joanne spouted back. “They need me.”

Tilia heard a door creak open and the familiar clacking of Joanne’s kitten heels walking down the upstairs hallway.

Curiously peculiar Tilia thought.

She had more questions now than she did previously. Who needed Joanne? Why were they hushedly talking in Mayor Bradley’s office? And who was this man she was talking to? If she saw him, she’d be able to pinpoint that voice. She wasn’t planning on it, but now, she will definitely be attending the town hall meeting.

Joanne spun on her heels and made her way down the tiled hallway towards the west side of the house. She considered it a house, even though everyone in this godforsaken town insisted on calling it a "Mansion". If only they knew, she chuckled to herself. On more than one occasion she had to stop herself in mid-conversation from saying "house".

Like that one day with Tilia in the garden, what was is they were discussing? Oh right, roses and how they can be finicky, but given just the right soil and nutrients oh how they can really grow and produce the brightest, most lovely-smelling flowers. They were taking a break from trimming the roses, Jessica had brought them some iced mint tea too cool them off from the hot summer sun, and Joanne had dropped her guard just a bit. Sitting cross-legged on the back lawn, she had felt like she was a young girl again, sitting with a childhood best friend and not one of her employees. While gazing upon the quaint (to her) lines of the house, she had nearly said, "Oh, it's such a lovely little house." She got as far as "Oh, it's such a ---". She had stopped and froze, not knowing what to say next.

After a few seconds of silence Tilia had looked towards her and inquired, "Such a what Mrs. Bradley?"

Joanne had hoped Tilia hadn't heard her, or at the very least would not ask about it. "A what? Oh nothing. I was just. I was thinking it's such a lovely day. I think I love the sun as much as the roses!"

But now Joanne had other things to tend to. She was headed towards her personal study. In comparison, Joanne's study was much smaller than her husband's main office, but that suited her just fine. She liked having a place where she could read, and think, and just be by herself. Many times being by herself was often the most important quality. True, if it was available she often used her husband's office for official business, it certainly brought an air of import and immediately made her guests feel inferior and subordinate to her. But her study was for herself and nobody else.

At first her husband had scoffed at the idea. "What does the wife of the Mayor need with a personal study? We have a library, and a drawing room." he had said.

But Joanne had insisted, explaining that sometimes a wife needs a place to do lady things. He had blushed then, the red rising from his cheeks, to the tops of his ears, and Joanne had assumed, to the rest of his head if she had been able to see under his hat. Too easy, she had thought to herself.

Walking now down the hall, she passed the many paintings and tapestries that adorned the walls of this central corridor. About half way down the hallway the tile changed to a deep, crimson-colored rug, and the click-clack of her footsteps changed to a soft, hushed tone. Like hair being brushed, but still with a slight "thump" when the heels of her shoes landed. Soon she was standing in front of the rough-hewn oak door that led to her study. She retrieved the large key from her pocket, inserted it into the black steel lock, and turned. The heavy and dark sound the lock made, as the internal pieces rotated and moved the deadbolt out of the way, always made her smile. She had special-ordered this lock from a locksmith five towns away. "Nobody can pick this lock mamn" he had said. She opened the door, stepped inside, and then closed and locked the door behind her.

The room was brightly lit, with a large window that overlooked the gardens in the lawn below. Her desk, old and made of cherry, sat against the right wall, and a similarly old and sturdy chair accompanied it. Opposite the desk was a giant floor-to-ceiling bookcase, it was packed full of books, many of them in double rows. It was here she went first. Her hand passed lovingly over a few books, "Plantz and Their Uzes", "The Complete History of Flooora - Temperate Zone, 3rd Edition", "Experiments of Cross Pooollination, Grafting, Specialization, and Ooothers". Finally her hand stopped on a large leather-bound book with no title.

She pulled the book from the shelf, brought it over to the desk, and sat down. She sighed as she undid the long single braid from her black hair, and pulled her brush through it a few times. Following this she removed the heels that she only wore because she was "The Mayor's Wife", she much preferred the loafers she wore in the garden. She rubbed her aching feet while humming a song to herself. She was lost in thought for the entirety of the song, slightly swaying in the chair and staring out the window. On the fading of the last note her eyes came back into focus. She sat up straight, and opened the large tome on the desk in front of her. The leather binding creaked as she opened it to a page deep in the back. A page she knew well because she had already read these particular chapters hundreds of times.

The vibration from Joanne’s footsteps shook the furry African violet leaf its six legs were perched on. It was curled up napping in the sunbeams that streamed through the pane. A slight breeze from the cracked window it came through rustled its wing. All five eyes blinked sleepily as a humming that bounced off the maroon walled bookcases awoke the fly. He felt with his antennae where the sound was coming from. Curiously he flew closer and found a good viewpoint from the arm of a swing lamp.

It was magnificent. The page was full of green, yellow, and purple all lined in bright gold leaf. All the colors swirled like a prism- of course that could be on account of his five eyes. There was fancy script in black that looked like the winding road and riverbed he flew above to get here. The black lines warped amongst the beautiful colors. It reminded him of his aerial view. He thought hard, “a map”! That’s what humans called it. It looked like a map.

Silly humans needing maps.

The lady brushed her hair, wafting the rich, creamy sweet smell of gardenia up towards him. This lady with waving strands as black as his thorax had a beautiful voice. It made his body shake with glee.

The fly looked around the room, picking up movement near the window he just flew from. At first he thought, the wind is shaking the plant leaves. But the magnolia trees outside the window remained steadfast. The fly noted, the petals and the leaves of the African violet weren't just shaking back and forth, they were actively reaching out towards the woman’s voice, vying for her attention, trying to be as near to her as possible.

Even though the meeting was not until 4PM, the Harrow household was up early. Elara was cooking a pot of oats while Neville, Claire, and Arthur sat at the table talking. The door and the meeting was the topic, of course.

"I bet it's full of BUGS!" Arthur said, who then laughed like he was the best comedian in the world. Going so far as to lightly bang his forehead on the table. "Bugs! Hahahaha!."

"Good one, Arthur." Claire rolled her eyes, turned to her father and asked, "When should we leave? I think we should leave early, to get good seats." She had not told her father or mother about the conversation she overheard between Joanne and the mystery man, which was the real reason she wanted to get there early. She did not want to miss anything, or anyone. "I don't want to end up not being able to hear anything, or even worse get stuck outside!"

"You want to go?" Neville said.

"Of course I do!"

"I think we should all go." Elara chimed in while doling oats from the pot into four bowls, her back turned.

Neville seemed to ponder this for a few seconds and then replied, "Yes, I suppose you're right. Both of you. I'm guessing the whole town will be there. We all should be too. It affects all of us."

Elara turned from the stove with the four bowls, two in each hand, and began placing them in front of everyone, and then sat down herself. "Arthur! Please don't play with your food. Just eat it."

"Yes, mom." Arthur reluctantly stopped waving his oat-covered spoon through the air and instead directed it into his mouth.

"I think two o'clock sounds good." Claire said. "That gives us plenty of time to get there."

"It's such a nice day out too," said Elara, "We have some bread and that piece of cured sausage that nice girl at the Mansion gave you. We can have a walking picnic."

"Well, then. I guess it's settled." Said Neville between mouthfuls of oats.

The Town Hall was at the very center of Brayton. It stood on a square patch of land, surrounded on all four sides by roads, the other sides of which were lined with stores like the bakery run by sweet old Miss Farlane, or Fannie as everyone called her. She had taken over the bakery after her husband, Peter, had died six months ago. In a freak accident he was struck by lightning walking down the road on his way to see a friend. The day was clear, only big white cotton candy cumulus clouds had been in the sky. Lord knows it hadn't rained, and hadn't seemed like it was going to either, as much as everyone would have appreciated it. Chrissy Davidson had been out mucking out the pig pens on their farm that was along that road and said she heard the loudest crack of lighting she'd ever heard on her life. She didn't realize at the time that it had gotten Peter. But today Fannie was a very busy baker, anticipating the flood of people to the town center for "the meeting", she had made three times as much bread as she normally would have on a Saturday. It was three o'clock now, and she was nearly sold out of all the bread she had baked early this morning. She was in the process of closing the shop early to be able to attend the meeting.

Instead of buying bread, some of the men in town instead elected to get "liquid bread" from the The Thirsty Cow. The Thirsty Cow was a bar that in addition to beer, also generated a lot of the more interesting stories of the town. The bar was on the road directly across from Fannie's, and between them sat the Town Hall. Large and built of stone that, 200 years ago, had been cut from a granite quarry fifty miles away. It was second in size only to the Bradley Mansion, which looked over it from the top of the hill to the North, at the end of Main street. Three stories tall, with most of the first and second floors dedicated to seating for the large central meeting room, it was already beginning to fill up. Seated in a row about half way back from the main podium, was the Harrow family. The entire bottom seating section was full, and all newcomers were being directed to the second floor balconies.

"See! I told you getting here early was a good idea!" said Claire, scratching her ribs. Even though it was Saturday, her mother had made her wear her Sunday dress, and she hated it because it always made her itch. Elara had insisted that they all wash up and put on their best clothes for this meeting. The entire town was going to be there, and she did not want anyone to be able to say anything about her family. Claire turned around, scanning the room.

"Looking for someone?" said Neville, he was also scratching at the wool leg of his pants.

Claire jumped a bit, and turned back to her father, "No, just lots of people is all. Sometimes I forget how many people actually live here."

At the very front of the room, at a long elevated podium facing the rest of the room, sat Mayor Bradley, with Joanne by his side. Also at the podium were two clerks to take notes of the discussion. In front of and facing the podium, and in between the two main seating sections, was a lectern where anyone who wished to speak would do so.

Scanning the room again, Claire saw another person she recognized. In the first row of the upper balcony on her left she saw Tilia, the gardener. Tilia seemed to be doing the same as Claire. She was leaning her arms on the railing and scanning entire room left to right and then back again. Over and over.

She can't be looking for him too, said Claire to herself. Suddenly the room was very hot and the air thin. Claire turned and looked straight ahead, her dress now both making her itchy and claustrophobic at the same time, a feeling that made her want to tear it off and run screaming from the room. Had Tilia overheard the same conversation? Was she somewhere where she could see Claire eavesdropping? If so, Tilia could tell Joanne and Claire would be fired on the spot she was sure. A small bead of sweat ran down from her armpit and absorbed itself into the fabric above Claire's ribs. Claire dared again to look up to where Tilia sat, Tilia was in the middle of scanning the room from left to right again when her eyes met Claire's. They held the gaze for a few seconds, although it felt like minutes to Claire, when Tilia smiled and waved. Claire waved back, hoping it looked natural because it felt more like a dead tree branch swinging in the middle of a winter storm. Cold and stiff. Tilia didn't seem to notice and went back to looking around the room. Fuck, said Claire to herself again, I think I'm going crazy.

The sound of a gavel cracking against the wooden sound block brought Claire back to the present. She, along with everyone else in the room, turned to face the front of the room, and the air grew silent. Mayor Bradley had started the meeting.

”Well,” Mayor Bradley started, “I think we all know why we’re here. There’s no point in beating around the old bush, eh? But, I suppose, there is a certain protocol to these things, I have to set the agenda, don't I. We're here to talk about the door, and only the door. No complaining about farmer Greys cows getting into people's backyards today." This earned him quite a few chuckles from the audience. He continued, "So, I guess, without further adieu, I'll open up the floor. Anyone who want to make their case, one way or another, feel free to do so now.

At this, people started lining up. From Claire's point of view the line went all the way to the back of the room, and continued out the door. Tilia had a slightly better view from her second floor vantage point, but she was as disappointed as Claire was to find that she recognized everyone in line so far.

Every one had their chance to speak. Most were some variation of something someone had said before, the most common being "nothing good can come from it", "what do we have to lose", "doors are meant to be opened", and "doors that are closed are meant to stay closed". Finally, as the day wore on, both Claire and Tilia noticed the same thing. A man in line who did not live in town.

Tilia recognized him first. Of course! It was the man who had spent a considerable amount of time a few years ago wandering the garden with Joanne, how could I not have recognized that voice? For hours at a time the man and Joanne would retread their steps in the garden's many trails. At first Tilia had assumed that it was some sort of affair, for she only saw the two of them together, almost never with the mayor. But when the man started joining the mayor and Joanne for dinner that theory went out the window. Tilia had made it a point to "need" to tend to nearby plants whenever these dinners would occur, but she could never get close enough to hear what they were saying. I should have put some plants in the dining room itself she had thought at the time.

Soon it was the man's turn to speak. He approached the podium at the front of the room, cleared his throat, looked round the room briefly, and began to speak.

"My name is Voltaire Penthor. Some of you, I think, may remember me, for I was here once before. But most, I assume, do not. All of you though I am sure are very aware that I am not from here. Where I am from is of no real concern at the moment, it is what I have to say that I hope will be of value to you all." He stopped speaking to let his words hang in the air and looked around the room, making it clear that he was speaking to the entire town, not just the mayor. Clair was watching him intently, and happened to notice that his eyes paused briefly on Sarah, the grocer's daughter, before continuing to circle the room. Finally he came back facing forward and continued.

"Many of those before me have made sound arguments both for and against opening the do-oor", there it is again, both Clair and Tilia noticed, "and I am here to try to convince you to decide on opening it. I could try to enumerate the positives and negatives of each, and through that steer you towards my desired outcome. Or I could lie to you, and tell you that I have seen other doors opened in other places, and that untold riches were found within, I'll not do that either.

What I will tell you is that I have been down to the door myself to see it. And I recognized some of the writing and symbols on it as being from the Do-ooleonic empire."

The Dooleons, and their rule that lasted thousands of years, were well-known to everybody. The stories of their kings and queens were endless. Being both fair to their people and exceptionally aggressive with their political rivals, the Dooleons' ruled at one point over what was now broken into hundreds of smaller territories, you couldn't really call them countries. In the center of the royal city had stood a massive castle, and it was surrounded by miles of gardens and forests. The roads that led in and out of the castle to the surrounding city districts were lined with massive trees, said to have been planted by some of the original Dooleans. Their trunks were tens of feet in diameter, and the trees rose many hundreds of feet into the air. What would have been a massive forest was interspersed with equally giant gardens. It was said that one could spend a lifetime wandering through the forests and gardens, and not visit the same place twice. There were no walls, and all were invited to spend time in the gardens, to sit and meditate, to listen to the sing-song of the birds as they fluttered between their roosts at the tops of the tall trees and the plentiful gardens below.

Less known about the Dooleons was the reason for their disappearance. There was no war, no famine, there was no political implosion, and no military coup or assassinations. There was no reason that anyone could find to explain what happened. Overnight they had all left. The king and queen, the extended royal family, and nearly all the top-level government officials were gone. The stories told of beds that had been made, even though the servants swore that they had personally seen them into their bedrooms that night. Personal items were gone: necklaces, favorite books, paintings of their family and children, things of that nature. But the entire treasure was left untouched. Piles of gold, silver, and gems were left behind an unlocked treasury gate in the belly of the castle. These of course were quickly looted in the power vacuum that followed, and the fracturing of the realm soon followed into what it was today. The forests and gardens that had been so meticulously maintained under the watchful eye of the Dooleans began to disappear. Trees were harvested for buildings, ships, and firewood. And the gardens slowly filled with weeds until nothing remained but field grasses and brambles.

So it was not surprising that when Voltaire stopped speaking, the room was completely silent for five full seconds before erupting into cacophony.

The mayor had to swing his gavel at the wooden block with all his might while yelling "QUIET! ORDER!" to get the room to calm down again. When at last the final voice went quiet the mayor said, "I'd like to remind everybody that when someone is standing at the podium, they have the floor. And that means you listen. Voltaire, please continue.

Voltaire took a second to collect his thoughts. "Like I said, I could lie to you and tell you what you want to hear about what is behind that door. The truth is I don't know. But what I do know, or at least find highly probable, is that we will find the answers we all so desperately seek about where the Dooleons went. Why they left. And most importantly, maybe we will find a way to get them to come back."

Voltaire was the last to speak. After him nobody else dared to make the walk to the front of the room, so the final decision was now up to the mayor.

He looked uncomfortable as he rose to his feet and smoothed his shirt across his belly. Finally he spoke, "Thank you to everyone who took the time to voice your concerns. Who made your voice known. It is times like this that I lean on you all to help inform my decisions. But, in this case I must admit that my decision mainly comes from once voice. Voltaire, your words have moved me and I believe you are right. We have an unprecedented chance to discover and learn a missing piece of our history. Something that I am sure each and every one of us has pondered since we were children. Why did they leave us?"

"We will do it tomorrow. Rip off the proverbial bandage as it were. We'll open it and see what is inside. If there is more to discover, if it leads somewhere, then we will follow. And we will need volunteers to do so. However, I do have one word of warning for those who do volunteer. If more lies beyond that door than a rock wall. If there are caves to be explored. We will be closing and locking the door behind you."

The meeting did not end so much as unravel.

When the mayor struck the gavel and declared the door would be opened, the silence that followed was thin and brittle. Then the room split into a hundred conversations at once. Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Some people surged toward the podium with questions. Others hurried for the exits as if distance alone might make the decision less real.

Claire stayed seated.

Around her, adults spoke in tight, urgent clusters.

“We’ll need strong backs.”

“No children, obviously.”

“We should wait. We don’t even know if it’s stable.”

The words snagged in Claire’s ears. No children. As if the drought would politely spare them. As if she were nothing that they cared about.

Her father was already on his feet, talking with two other men from the mill. His face had the set, distant look he wore when he had made up his mind about something difficult. Claire felt a cold certainty settle in her stomach.

He was going to volunteer.

At the front of the room, Joanne leaned close to the mayor, speaking in a voice too low to carry. Voltaire stood a few paces behind her, watching the crowd instead of the podium. For a heartbeat his gaze met Claire’s. There was something measuring in it, something that made her feel suddenly seen. She looked away.

The crowd spilled out into the square. No one laughed. No one lingered. People drifted home in strained silence, wishing that they had spoken up. Afraid and excited at the same time.

That night, Claire lay awake listening to the quiet where the river’s rush should have been. Every creak of the house sounded like a footstep. Every sigh of wind like an old voice trying to speak. When she finally drifted toward sleep, it was shallow and restless.

The hum pulled her out of it.

Claire felt it through the soles of her feet before she heard it, a low vibration that crept up her legs and settled in her chest.

The hum became a roar.

Claire was on her feet before she knew she had moved. The floor rolled beneath her like water. A cup shattered in the kitchen. Arthur cried out down the hall. The walls groaned as if the house were taking a long, painful breath.

“Outside!” her father shouted.

Claire stumbled into the night with her family and half the town. Lanterns flared. Doors banged open and stayed open. The tremor surged again, a long violent shudder that stole Claire's balance and heaved the ground beneath her. She grabbed her father’s arm and felt the shaking in his bones as much as in the ground.

Then it stopped.

The silence that followed rang in her ears. No insects. No wind. The air tasted dry and metallic.

Someone whispered, “The river.”

They ran and Claire ran with them. Bare feet slapped dirt and lantern lights bobbed ahead in frantic arcs. Claire's lungs burned, but she did not slow. The dark shape of the riverbank rose before them. And the town stopped as one.

The river was gone. Dry. No water left to give a thought of what may be. A jagged fissure split the riverbed and ran straight to the cave. The metal door stood fully exposed. Standing obstinate and in defiance to them. Daring them to inspect itself.

Claire’s stomach tightened. The door looked closer than it ever had. Black. Dark. Awake. Waiting.

Joanne and the mayor pushed to the front. Claire edged sideways until she could see past the shoulders in front of her. Joanne’s face was pale, her eyes fixed on the door with a focus that made Claire’s skin prickle.

“We cannot wait,” Joanne said.

Her voice carried cleanly over the crowd. Conversations faltered and died.

“We need volunteers to enter the cave. Now.”

The word settled heavy in Claire’s chest.

Volunteers.Now.

Neville stepped forward. Claire felt the space he left beside her like a sudden drop. Others joined him. Tilia moved from the edge of the crowd, jaw set. Voltaire was already picking his way down the cracked slope toward the door, as if the decision had been made long ago.

Fear rose sharp and cold in Claire’s throat. Vomit tried to make its way out. Not my father. It can't be.

Someone has to go.

The thought was small and stubborn. It would not leave. She ran after her father.

“I’m going,” she said. Her voice shook. She forced the words out anyway.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The mayor started to speak, but Joanne lifted a hand. Her gaze settled on Claire. It felt like standing in a beam of light.

“Let her stand,” Joanne said.

The murmurs faded into uneasy silence. Claire stepped forward before she could change his mind. A small knot of volunteers gathered at the edge of the fissure. Claire counted without meaning to. Her father. Tilia. Voltaire. Three others she knew by sight but not by name. And herself. Joanne descended to them. Up close, Claire could see the tightness around her eyes.

“You may still turn back,” Joanne said quietly. “Once we open the door, there will be no easy return. If there is passage beyond, it will be sealed behind you for your safety. Decide now.” Claire’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her legs wanted to follow him. She locked her knees. She stayed where she was, speaking without moving was the answer.

Joanne nodded once, as if marking the choice. She turned to the door and wrapped both hands around the great metal handle. Voltaire joined her. Together they pulled.

The sound was deep and grinding. Metal scraped stone. The door resisted, groaned and then lurched inward. A breath of stale air spilled from the darkness beyond, cool and damp and carrying a scent Claire did not recognize. It was green and alive and impossibly old. A narrow stairway descended into the earth. Faint light glimmered far below, soft as starlight through leaves. Claire’s mouth went dry. The opening felt like the edge of a cliff.

Her father touched her shoulder. She looked up at him. Fear flickered in his eyes, bright and unhidden. He tried to smile.

“Stay close,” he said.

She nodded because she could not trust her voice.

Joanne stepped aside and gestured to the stair. “Go,” she said.

Claire drew one shaky breath.

Then she crossed the threshold. And the rest followed.

The chamber opened around them like the inside of a living lung.

The air was wet and warm. Light pulsed softly through vast braided roots that arched overhead, disappearing into darkness. At the center of the chamber rose a structure like a flower carved from light itself. Its petals were half-closed, their glow dim and uneven. With every slow pulse, the light faltered, as if the flower were struggling to remember how to breathe.

Claire felt the weakness of it in her chest. Each flicker made her own heartbeat stutter.

“It’s dying,” she whispered.

Joanne did not answer right away. She stepped forward with the quiet certainty of someone approaching a long-awaited destination. Her brother caught her wrist.

“There is still time to turn back,” he said, his voice raw. “We can look for another way.”

Joanne smiled at him, gentle and unbearably sad. “We already did,” she said. “This is the way that’s left.”

She turned to Claire.

Up close, Joanne looked smaller. The sharp edges Claire had always seen in her were softened by exhaustion and something like relief.

“I broke it,” Joanne said simply. “I tried to command what should have been loved. I thought I could force the world into safety. I was wrong. And I have been wrong for a very long time.”

Claire shook her head. “There has to be another way,” she said. The words came out thin and desperate. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” Joanne said. Not unkindly. “I do.”

The dying flower pulsed again. The light dimmed further. The roots around them creaked, a low sound of strain that echoed through the chamber. Claire felt a wave of fear roll through her. If the light went out completely, she knew with a certainty that chilled her that the world above would follow.

Joanne stepped to the edge of the flowering core. Its dim glow painted her hands in pale gold.

“I cannot do this alone,” she said quietly.

Claire stared at her. “What?”

“You must help me open it,” Joanne said. “It will not accept me without a witness. Without someone who understands what is being given.”

Claire’s stomach twisted. She looked at the flower, at Joanne’s outstretched hands. The path home felt impossibly far away.

“I don’t want to,” she said. The confession tore out of her. “I don’t want you to die. Why should we save them? They argue and they waste and they break things. Why is it always someone like you who has to pay for it?”

The chamber answered with silence. The flower’s light guttered, almost going dark.

Then the roots around Claire stirred.

Images flickered in the dim glow, not in the air but inside her mind. She saw her mother laughing at the stove, flour dusting her cheeks. Her father collapsing to the floor in mock agony, a wooden spoon clutched to his chest while Arthur shrieked with laughter. She saw Tilia bent tenderly over a fragile stem. She saw strangers sharing bread in the town square. A thousand small kindnesses, bright as sparks.

Love. Messy and imperfect and stubborn.

The flower pulsed faintly in time with those memories. Claire understood then that the Engine was not showing her grand triumphs or heroic legends. It was showing her the fragile threads that stitched ordinary lives together.

Without that, there was nothing.

Her hands were shaking when she stepped beside Joanne.

“I’m afraid,” Claire whispered.

“So am I,” Joanne said. She reached out and squeezed Claire’s fingers. “That means you understand what this costs. That is enough.”

Together, they placed their hands into the heart of the flower.

Light surged up Claire’s arms, hot and cold at the same time. She felt the vastness of the Engine open around her: rivers threading through stone, roots drinking deep in distant forests, clouds gathering over dry fields. She felt Joanne beside her, a steady presence dissolving into the current.

Forgive me, Joanne’s voice seemed to say, though her lips did not move.

Claire held on tighter.

“I forgive you,” she said aloud, and felt the words settle into the light like seeds.

Joanne smiled. It was a small, peaceful smile. Then her fingers loosened in Claire’s grasp. Her form unraveled into threads of gold that streamed into the flowering core. The petals flared wide, brilliant and blinding.

The chamber filled with a sound like a great breath drawn after a long drowning.

Far above, water rushed.

Claire staggered back as the light gentled. The flower now blazed with steady radiance. The roots around the chamber thrummed with renewed strength. Through the Engine she felt the river swell and surge back into its ancient bed. She felt rain gathering, heavy with promise. In distant places, buried seeds stirred. And beneath it all, she felt Joanne. Tears blurred Claire’s vision. She pressed her hand to her chest and bowed her head.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

When she finally turned toward the stair, the others were watching her with awe and grief etched into their faces. Claire took a steadying breath.

“We have to go,” she said softly. “The world is waking up.”

They climbed toward the surface. Taking a new path, higher. With each step, the air grew fresher and cooler. When Claire emerged into the open, dawn was breaking.

The river roared beside them, full and shining. Its waters leapt over the banks in joyful excess. The cracked earth was already darkening, drinking deeply. Along the shore, green shoots pushed through the soil with impossible speed.

People were gathering, crying and laughing as the water returned. Some fell to their knees. Others embraced. Above them, clouds rolled in thick and silver, and the first drops of rain began to fall.

Claire stood at the river’s edge and let the rain soak her hair and clothes. Her tears of joy mixed with the rain from above. Grief and wonder tangled inside her, too vast to separate. The world felt unbearably alive.

In the rush of the river and the whisper of the rain, she felt a familiar warmth, steady and gentle.

She was not alone.

Claire closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of wet earth and growing things. When she opened them again, the town was already changing around her, washed clean and trembling with new life.

She stepped forward into it, carrying the memory of Joanne’s sacrifice like a quiet flame, and began the long work of belonging to the world she had helped save.