Despite my grief, I was happy and excited to see her, which made me feel guilty. “Kaliah!” I said.
She turned. Recognition flared in her eyes, then sorrow, then nothing. She turned away. “Kaliah!” I called again, but she ignored me. As the Zaditorians escorted me past her, I called her over and over but succeeded only in getting the attention of those she was with. Kayak Brad was among them. He smiled at me.
I’d known Kaliah was being tortured, being chiseled into a living sculpture. But seeing it firsthand was different. Kayak Brad’s smile sparked hatred and rage in me that felt powerful and good compared to my grief. I gave in to the feelings and lost control, violently throwing my body around like a wild animal in a trap. I cursed Brad and promised retribution. But his smile only broadened.
I was dragged by the black bubbles for a bit before I calmed and put my feet back under me. People were staring. I was the only one around with bubbles around my hands. I was the only one throwing a fit. I composed myself. I’d never felt so alone.
The gymnasium had a decent number of people inside, their combined chatter sounding hollow in such a large space. The potent smell of treated hardwood floor reminded me of high school football rallies. But the general mood here, judging by faces and body language, reminded me more of a funeral.
I was led to the center of the basketball court and sat in one of four metal folding chairs arranged behind a microphone on a stand, facing the bleachers. The Zaditorians stood behind me. They’d rested my bubbles on the tops of my thighs. I watched people finding their seats. I saw Hugo Sinclair, Kaliah’s brother, and when he saw me, I slowly looked away. Traitor.
Kaliah came and sat in the chair farthest from me, and Brad and his bond, Meadow filled the seats between. Kaliah would not look at me. I didn’t bother to call her name again. I avoided looking at Brad. He would get what he deserved, as soon as I got these bubbles off my hands and found a typewriter.
When the audience settled in and was silent, my childhood therapist, Nancy, who was also Brad’s mom and the Prime Nabob, walked to the microphone, wearing a Christmas sweater, and spoke: “Welcome mobiaks of the Humboldt and Mendocino Lodges. I’m afraid that you’ve all been lured here under false pretenses, under the notion that there was an imminent war with Zaditor on the horizon. And for that, I apologize, but that was the best option available to us at the time.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, but the Prime Nabob continued: “This is a historic day. Some of you may know of Blanche Duluth, and others may not. A little background: Blanche was born an oshara, a very rare breed as all of you know, in Boonville. An intelligent child, she spoke her first word at the age of one, when she pointed to a glass of ice water and remarked, ‘Entropy.’ Her intelligence was rivaled only by her emotional capacity. She was especially sensitive to the suffering of others, and at the age of five, she made a vow to end all suffering forever. Now, eighty years later, thanks to her tireless efforts, we are on the precipice of realizing Blanche’s dream.
“She discovered early on that if she could unite every living thing in every stomach, not only would we live in harmony, but we would rise up to be a God, together. The obvious vehicle for such an ambitious endeavor was nemaloki cackle, but, as many of you know, when the cackle of a mobiak is tainted by the cackle of a nemaloki, Arawok will regurgitate that cackle. However, earlier today—” The Prime Nabob pointed a hand toward me. “—Blanche’s grandson, Charlie Allison, a young Sojourner, was able to make Blanche immune to Arawok’s vomit reflex, a truly historic feat, freeing Blanche’s cackle to spread throughout the seven stomachs.
“Unfortunately, for those of you gathered here today, your suffering will continue. You will not be united with Blanche, along with this stomach and the rest, because she has bestowed upon each of you a great burden and a great honor, and that is to chronicle and critique—yes I said critique—Blanche Duluth’s glorious rise. And for that purpose, your perspectives must remain independent.”
I saw what looked like resignation on some of the faces in the crowd, Hugo’s among them, like everything the Prime Nabob said was old news. But on the majority of faces, I saw shock and bewilderment. I tried to avoid eye contact. They would blame me for whatever came next.
“The mummers have been relocated to the monastery, freeing the housing for you all,” the Prime Nabob went on, motioning to a group of people standing around boxes stacked near one corner of the bleachers. The people began opening the boxes. “Each of you will be placed in a house with roommates and given an assignment according to your strengths. To get you started, you will all be receiving a copy of Blanche Duluth’s latest memoir, Teatime with Arawok: My Humble Journey to Omnipotence.”
The group pulled books out of the boxes and walked up and down the bleacher aisles, passing them out. “For your own safety and independence,” the Prime Nabob said, “you will not be permitted to leave this valley. Some of you may be wondering what you saw when you drove in today. That is the Wall of Blanche. In those little houses are the previous Mummer Wardens who are now infected by Blanche and are spreading her cackle up and out, surrounding this town day and night. I assure you if you try to cross the wall, you will be united with Blanche. For those of you who cannot handle
