TWENTY-NINE
I step out of the elevator and I'm in the center of the penthouse. There's nothing between Mere and me and the floor-to-ceiling windows but hardwood floors, a couple pieces of furniture, and an impressive art collection. Off to my left is an equally ostentatious kitchen; to my right are several mobile partitions filled with books and an assortment of smaller trinkets; beyond I spot the edge of a billiards table and an array of large-screen televisions. Somewhere back there is a real wall. The display is meant to be daunting in its dizzying display of wealth, and it succeeds in its efforts.
“What do you think of the view?” someone asks.
The voice comes from a burgundy-colored leather chair near the windows, facing away from the elevator. A narrow glass of wine sits on a nearby side table.
I touch Mere on the elbow, guiding her toward the windows, and we walk over to admire the view. The glass is tempered and there's a pattern to it that shifts when I look at it. Controlled tinting, the sort of atmospheric control that an Arcadian would have installed. “It's impressive,” I say, looking out at the glittering skyline of Santiago. There is only one building that is as tall as the one we're in, and I suspect Montoya owns it too. Off in the distance, I can see the dark hump of Sero San Cristobal, the glowing figure of the Virgin Mary at the peak.
The man sitting in the chair on my left appears to be in his late sixties, but he sits too readily, too upright, to be bound by the physicality of that age. He's older, his physical appearance simply a disguise. Much like my own.
“Alberto's tastes are a bit grandiose,” the older man says, “but it makes him feel more… at home. More like a prince.”
Mere fidgets next to me, her hands twisting over themselves, and she finally turns to the older man and puts out her hand. “Hi, I'm Meredith Vanderhaven. I don't think we've met.”
He takes her hand—gracefully, elegantly—and raises it slowly to his lips. “Escobar,” he says. “Escobar Montoya.”
“You were born in 1896,” she says, not letting go of his hand. “Which means you've got to be an Arcadian, like Silas. Alberto is twenty-seven. So my first question is: great-grandson or grandson?”
“Neither,” Escobar says. “Both.” He laughs, glancing past her at me. “She knows.” It isn't a question.
“Probably more than I do,” I say dryly.
Escobar laughs again. “Oh, that I know.”
I look at him fully, examining his face. Trying to recognize it. All I can see is a resemblance from the sculpture downstairs. “I don't know you,” I tell him.
His nostrils flare for a second and his face clouds. “You're a liar, Silas Dardanidi,” he says.
“So I've been told,” I reply, and as if on cue, the elevator sounds.
I expect it contains Talus, but when I hear the echo of more than one pair of feet, I glance over my shoulder. Talus is there, but so is a younger version of Escobar. He wears his suit like he knows how to. Unlike Talus, who is putting on a good show, but looks like the half-thawed French peasant he is next to Alberto Montoya.
“Well,” I hear Mere say, “look here. It's the prodigal grandson and your old pal. This is turning into quite the party.”
Grandson.
Pieces click together. “He's not your grandson,” I say to Escobar. “He's you.”
Escobar chuckles. “I was never that young,” he says.
One of the side effects of Mother's care: we may live forever, but we're never less aged than the day we first enter her embrace.
“How long has it been since you were truly young, Silas?” he asks.
My head is spinning. “Thirty-three centuries,” I say, “give or take a few.”
Mere stares at me, her mouth open.
“One of the first,” he concedes. “But then, you always were one of her favorites.”
I shrug. “I wasn't aware that she has favorites. And even if she does, I'm certainly not on the list anymore.”
Mere is still staring at me, and Escobar carefully picks up his glass and takes a tiny sip. “Yes, being aware is sometimes difficult when you return to her so frequently, isn't it?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much do you remember of all those years?” he asks.
“Most of it,” I counter, somewhat defensively, not meeting Mere's gaze.
He laughs. “Most? Silas, do you know how complex the pathways in your brain would have to be to sustain all that history? Haven't you ever wondered why, of all the things that are perfect about us, it is our memories that are the most fragile?”
“The world is fragile,” I counter. “It's not like it used to be. It's become so toxic. Brain tissue degrades easily.”
“Toxicity has nothing to do with it,” he snorts. “Memory is just as easily not restored.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, Silas. You know she takes memories from you. But do you know how? When you go into Mother's embrace and she heals you, how do you think that works?”
“I—she—she restores us.”
“Restores you? How? You've been part of her for thirty-three hundred years, and you've never wondered how she heals you? Is it just a matter of growing you new tissue? If you come back to her without legs, she grows you new ones. No arm? No problem. Missing a kidney, or a lung, or an eye? Just as easy. Is that how you think it is done? She buries you beneath her roots and you lie there like a blind worm, letting her knit you whole again.”
“Wait a minute,” Mere interjects. “This is all true? This is what happens?”
“More or less,” I say, somewhat stung by Escobar's words.
“More or less?” Mere echoes.
“He knows so little about how it truly works, dear,” Escobar says. “He's not just a passive recipient of her affection. Ask him what happens when he buries himself? Ask him if he can grow a new arm? You hide in the ground, Silas, don't you? You hide so that you can make new marrow from the humus. You can eat flesh to replace your own. You drink blood to flush toxins out of your own bloodstream. If you can do all this without her, then why do you need her at all?”
“I—” I suspect “that's just the way it is done” isn't the answer he's looking for.
“Mother says you need her, and you believe her. Like any good child does when its mother tells it the way the world works. But it's more insidious than that, Silas, because Mother has built you in a such a way that you crave her soil above all others, and the longer you are gone from her embrace, the more that craving builds. Don't you feel it?”
“No,” I resist. “It's the air. It's this world. It's this… this poison that is in my blood. She would heal me. She would protect me.”
“She would lie to you,” Escobar says sadly. “It's what she's been doing for more than thirty-three centuries.”
“No,” I protest. “You're the one who is doing the lying.” I look at Mere for help, but she's just standing there, listening. Taking it all in. Trying to grasp what she's hearing.
“He's trying to confuse me. Confuse us,” I tell her. “We know that Hyacinth owns land on Rapa Nui. We know they built the lab. We know what they're doing. This has nothing to do with how Arcadia works. He knows that I'm rootless. He knows I can't call Arcadia.”
“Why not?” she says softly.
“No, Mere. He's lying to us. You saw what he did to Nigel. He did that to one of his own.”
“And you haven't?” Escobar snaps.
He wants me to deny it; he wants me to say the words that will seal my fate. He wants me to admit my ignorance of my own history. Because that will prove his point. He knows what I have done, what actions I have taken because Mother told me to.
Amnesiacs know.
“You don't know anything,” he says coldly as if he can read my thoughts. “You know nothing about who we are. What we have done to become who we are. What we gave up.” His voice rises in volume. “You don't remember anything.”
I look at Mere again, and the expression on her face is too much to bear. It reminds me of…
I can't look at her all of a sudden, and I turn my gaze to the view, looking out at the darkening skyline of Santiago. A tiny sliver of light gets caught on the roofline of the building near us, a tiny flash of reflected sunlight that hasn't quite gone out yet.
I remember the sun setting in the west, letting the night loose across the sky; I remember how the torches colored all their faces, turning them red with blood. I remember the feathers, the white feathers stuck to my arms and shoulders and chest. The heavy headdress, covered with more feathers. I remember the one who was there before me. The steward.
I remember her face.
“This is a waste of time,” Talus says, walking up behind me. “It's all buried too deep. He'll never remember. He prefers it this way. It makes him more efficient. Memory only clouds the mind. Silas doesn't want to know. He just wants to serve.” He's standing right behind me. “He just wants to do what he's told.”
Mere's eyes are bright, imploring me to say something.
Pieces, coming together. Grafting lemon trees. Tending gardens. Growing a sapling in pure soil.
“Mother sent me to the island to stop you,” I say. “You were growing your own tree. You were trying to create a new Arcadia. Mother didn't want that, and so she sent me.”
Behind Mere, Alberto is silent, but his mouth is twisted into a leer. I can see the old man in him now. I can see where he came from.
I look at Talus next, searching his face for any sense that he wasn't the bastard I thought he was. I see nothing that convinces me otherwise and so I turn away from him, letting my gaze swing across the view once more.
The sliver of sunlight has gone.
I gauge the distance between the two buildings, and wonder how much wind there is at this height.
Putting my hand on Mere's arm, I turn toward Escobar. “Jacinta Huaca Copihue.” I say the name attached to the face I now remember. “Mother sent me to kill your wife. Mother sent me to kill Hyacinth.”
Mere was right. I needed a trigger. I needed something to force my subconscious to remember what was buried.
And now, I remember too much.
Escobar starts to come out of his chair. Talus is reaching for me, and all I care about is Mere's reactions to my words. Her eyes are widening, and I can't tell if it is in shock or horror.
I hear the tiny plink of glass breaking, and then Talus's head explodes.