Pilgrimage III

The first impression I had was of blood.

Crimson stalks of satin drapes, shimmering with oily iridescence, fell from the incredibly high ceiling and extended out into the floor, billowing in the breeze of our entry. The light shining through the gauzy body of the drapes gave the impression of a pool filled with swirling, red liquid on the marble floor. The walls were of heavy granite and slate; men in black, ornate uniforms stood guard lined shoulder to shoulder along the wall opposite our entry. The motionless rank extended down the hall into eternity. They held a gaze above our heads and did not move. They were dead.

We walked forward slowly, every step a ringing gunshot in the large hall. The cacophony of the circling helicopters outside pummeled the air and quenched as the doors slid shut. The agency of authority had not detected our entry into the building, though they knew we were coming. The courthouse of the damned had no windows save small squares immediately below the towering ceiling. We began to walk toward the brass-framed directory hanging on the far wall.

The directory was in some odd, glyphic language. There was no map. Down the hall to our right, the normal bustle of border crossing was audible. We had not come through the correct door. We were not supposed to be here, and anyone who saw us would know it.

The air was shattered by clacking footsteps of high heels on marble tile. We had no escape. It would be a fight. And I was the only one of our group capable of the fight. I stuffed the boy behind the solid line of corpse guards and directed the girl behind him. I feigned confidence and told them to remain silent, no matter what. The steps were reporting closer and closer. I crouched in front of the directory and waited to strike. I had no rocks this time. White heels and a sensible, though glaring, white suit walked in front of me and stopped. She turned towards me. I remained in a crouch, though I did not pounce as I had planned. She walked up to me and squatted down. She was a beautifully appointed woman of commerce and business. Her flowing, golden hair fell around her face and her eyes were pale blue.

She smiled.

"Are you lost?"

"Yes."

"Let me help you."

Her pale hand, manicured and thin, reached out for mine. Her smile ripened and showed her perfect, white teeth. I took her hand and she pulled me up out of the crouch as she stood. Her voice was without regional locution and her face betrayed no heritage. She was refinement and salesmanship made manifest. She was a business woman, like they had in movies, and she wanted to help me, a poor and country boy from the beans and the rich, brown Earth. Her hand was smooth, without callous or blemish and her suit showed no stains from working deep in the soil or caring for the sick, the dying, and the children. Her hair was not knotted or streaked with the gray of a hard life in a hard climate living the hard faith of the Brethren. She was like no woman I had ever seen with my own eyes, though she was alive and well in the iris of a dozen projectors in the Cortez Magnificente Theatre.

I couldn't take my eyes off of her. "I have friends."

"I know."

I called the two, and they came out from behind the displayed death. The girl's face was troubled and she looked suspiciously at the woman. The boy, without question, comment, or even recognition grabbed my hand. The girl followed with arms folded.

"We need to get to the North."

"Yes."

We walked toward the bustle of the crossing, her heels reverberating odd the slate walls and dead guards, the drapes billowing after her swaying walk.