The Last Wall

The woman in the yellow dress blurred, as if she stood in two poses at once. She vanished and a moment later appeared on a balcony. Her hair, now unbound, streamed on the wind.

So it had been for weeks. Wim would catch a glimpse of her on the Last Wall, then she would reappear in another place on it or vanish entirely, always as if there was some trick of the lighting, some superposition that made it seem as if she was in several places at once. And often, before she vanished, her gaze seemed to single him out.

It was very peculiar but the most unusual aspect was that he could see anyone there at all. On the Last Wall, at the heart of the city, smoke rose from chimneys. Pennants fluttered from flag poles. Curtains swayed as if a person had just passed by. But for years, never had he seen a single soul, not until he had first spied the woman in the yellow dress a few weeks ago.

Wim's childhood friend Raim rustled his hauberk to get his attention. The two stood in the street outside Wim's family-shop.

"Oh, sorry," Wim said. "Stop over-tightening the spring."

Raim took the pocket-watch. "And you should stop looking at the Wall."

"Why? You learned anything since you joined the City Cohort?"

Raim jerked his head in tight negation. "No one likes to talk about it."

The woman in yellow disappeared from the balcony.

"As bold as you are staring at it, you'd do okay as a guard. I could get you in," Raim said. "It'd put some muscle on you. Women like a strong man in armor."

Wim waggled his long, callous-free fingers. "Your talents lie in cracking skulls, mine in finer pursuits."

"Bah, you're just a tinker. Show a sense of duty."

"I'm a watch-smith," Wim said. "Women like a good living even more than a pretty tabard, at least, the ones I'm interested in."

Raim clattered off, affecting a frown.

If the stories were true, it was the Wall not the guards that really protected the city.

It was more a palace on a ribbon of stone than a defensive work. Chambers and balconies cantilevered in all directions linked by arcing spans of iron and stone. Spires and towers rose with no particular pattern. There were even clusters of well-ordered trees that poked above the walls, probably the mark of little gardens. Even without vanishing ladies, there was plenty to hold the eye.

"Wim!" shrieked his mother. She jabbed him in the elbow with a broomstick, having sallied forth from inside their shop. She joined him on the stoop, her scowl somewhat undermined by the way her gaze kept flitting toward the Wall before darting away.

Wim rubbed his bruise.

"Never look at it! Never!" his mother said. "You'll bring a curse, not just on yourself but on all of us."

"What's the harm?"

"Ask my brother, if you could," she said. "One day he swore he saw a woman in a tower perched high, high up. The next day, a building collapsed on him."

"But that had to have been just an accident."

"Was it? Folks who give that... that... place too much heed have a way of turning up dead." His mother grabbed the silver pendant at her neck and mouthed a silent prayer. "Never look at it again. Forget it."

"But mother-"

"No! Finish setting out the new stock, then it's off to the temple for you. You can bring the white doves your father was saving for holy-day. I just hope it's enough."

Wim went back inside and set to emptying a crate of mantel clocks packed in straw.

The Last Wall drew his attention much more than his mother realized, that's why Wim knew there really was no harm in it. But Raim's barbs stung more than Wim cared to admit. As children, the two had played endlessly at knights and dragons. Both had dreamed of doing battle and protecting the weak. But Wim did not have the backbone to stand down a rowdy drunk or face an angry mob. His talents lay in sedate, studied activities, like deciphering the complexities of a clock mechanism. Still, he could not deny that Raim's offer had not put a brief flutter in his stomach. Youthful dreams of glory took time to die.

It was all fancy, though, his fate decided. Wim had enough set aside to take a wife and become a formal partner in the family business. His father had cleared out the top floor in anticipation of a second household. The negotiations with Katrina's family were complete, waiting only Wim's formal acceptance. He liked her. They would make good partners. But if he grew bored, if he had time, there would always be the Wall to ponder, and maybe the woman in yellow.

#

Wim paused at a street corner not far from the foot of the Last Wall. Purple motes wafted from the open window of a shop selling self-moving banners that could bring a breeze to a stuffy room. Across the intersection another shop, judging by the over-sized dustpan over the door, seemed devoted to magical aids for cleaning house. Such stores were plentiful in the wizard's district. The other two establishments at the crossroad offered food, with their windows full open and tables set out under awnings. A carter with a wagon loaded with beer barrels rattled by.

From the nearest tavern, a sweaty man stepped to him and pushed a mug toward Wim. "Just a Sh'bol," the man said.

"Can you tell me where the temple is?" Wim asked.

The man grinned and shook the mug, sloshing a bit of beer onto the cobbles.

Wim fished a coin from his purse.

"How can you not know where the temple is?" the man asked.

"I'm from the market district."

"Use the market temple."

"Can't. There was a fire last night."

"Regent's temple is your next closest."

"Aye, but some noble's getting married. Priest turned me away."

"Not your day for making an offering, is it?"

Wim shrugged.

"No harm in you offering at my temple, I suppose." The man rubbed his jowls. "Cut over to the next street, a narrow one that runs up the hill-"

"Towards the Last Wall?"

"Yep, that's the way. Mind you, it's steep. At the top of the rise, you'll see it, marked by two twisty sort of columns. Usually a pretty priestess or two out front."

Wim finished his mug and set forth.

The heat had raised a haze that obscured the lower city and the river that bisected it. It had also driven the worst of the city smells into the stone, leaving only a dusty bite that tickled his nose.

At the next crossroad he turned up the hill. There was no walkway on this little roadway, just a gutter in the center and enough space between doorsteps for a cart to pass. Halfway up the hill, a wagon full of barrels blocked the street. It was the one that had passed him earlier, now moving too slowly to make a clatter on the cobbles.

Should he try another street? Nothing ran straight around here. He could spend half the day wandering about lost. He ought to be able to slip past the wagon. He set off up the steep way, passing a little girl setting her clay dolls out on the stoop of her building. From the look of it, a knight was going to have to rescue a princess from a dragon.

At a window to the right of the girl, a woman stood up from her loom, shuttle still in hand to check on the girl. He attempted a benign smile as he passed by.

Higher up the street, past the lumbering wagon, there was some stonework that might be one of the tavern keeper's twisty columns. Beside it stood a woman in a yellow gown, staring at him. The sight turned his tongue dust-dry. It was the woman from the Last Wall. Despite her stern visage, she was as beautiful as he had imagined. But how could she be here?

There was a faint snap, like a father's switch across the bottom of a wayward child. A barrel broke loose from the wagon, followed by the rest of the load. They were big, almost waist high. They bounced and rolled, gathering speed and spreading out to the width of the street, roaring like a dragon in the narrow chasm between the four-story buildings.

Wim dropped the birdcage, darted uphill to the closest doorway and dove into the lee of its steps. A barrel bounced over him and smashed near his foot, drenching him in beer. A second darkened the sky. It wasn't going to fall clear. He twisted to roll aside. Bones splintered as the barrel smashed across his hip. Mind-blanking pain seared him. The barrel continued toward his head. All turned black.

#

The world was dim. Wim shook his head to clear his sight. Where was he?

Before him, a narrow street ran up a hill. From behind came the burble of a busy roadway. On top of the rise, beyond a lumbering beer wagon, were the twisty columns and the woman in yellow, again. Again? He had never been in this quarter of the city but somehow he knew he had walked this very street. Was he dreaming?

Snap. A barrel rolled from the wagon. The rest of the load followed. A roar filled the street. He dove for the shelter of the nearest steps. Before he reached safety, a barrel bounced high and caught him full in the chest, knocking him into oblivion.

#

The woman in yellow gazed at Wim from higher up the street, from beyond the wagon. He had seen her before, not on the Last Wall, but here, on a street he was visiting for the first time in his life.

Snap. The barrels broke loose.

A stoop just up the hill beckoned, promising false shelter. He bolted downhill. Doves till in-hand, he found refuge in the archway of an apartment just before the first barrel roared by. More barrels bounded after it, some spilling their contents, others of stouter oak careening with growing speed.

The little girl looked up from her dolls, her face calm and uncomprehending. A barrel swept her away, leaving a splash of foamy beer.

A wail rose, the cry of the bereaved mother.

Wim ran to help but there was nothing that could be done for the crushed child. The mother's wail turned to sobs.

The girl's little knight lay smashed into bits, only the stick-sword recognizable. A hollowness filled Wim's head. All this was familiar, ordained somehow. And if he was forewarned, he should have been able to save the little girl at her play. But how? What could he have done?

#

The sight of the woman in yellow, standing at the temple, thrust an icicle through his heart. There was death here.

Snap. The barrels broke free.

There was no shelter in the lee of the steps. He turned for a doorway downhill, ran for it with all speed. Farther down, the little girl played, her head turning to the sound of roaring barrels. He saw the splash of beer that would soon take her place.

The cold in his chest raced to his throat, threatening to choke him. Though he had never seen the child until this day, somehow he had failed her before. He would not fail her this time. He ran for her. He would scoop her up and throw her into the house.

Barrels cracked and snapped behind him like a spluttering dragon. A blow knocked him flat. Bones crunched. He had just begun to shriek before the life was crushed from him.

#

The woman in yellow put a chill in his chest. Was it because she was supposed to be on the Last Wall? Or that she was the nexus of his nightmares?

The wagon would bring death. He knew this, though he could not say why. He knew too that he could escape his doom, should he choose. But what of the girl at play?

Snap. The barrels began to roll.

He ran for the girl. Behind him, barrels smashed and cracked. Without looking back, he dodged one. It hit a cobble, bouncing into the air. Beer sprayed from gaping staves, but it was not yet spent. It rolled on, toward the little girl.

The barrel hit another protruding cobblestone and jumped once more into the air as if seeking the poor child. Spewing beer, it swept the girl away.

The mother began to wail.

There was a flicker of movement at the foot of the street. A man garbed in white, carrying a little cage with two doves began to ascend, a ghostly man.

Wim shut his eyes. Was he going crazy? Was this a dream?

When the mother's sobs had died to a low moan, Wim opened his eyes. The ghost was gone. By the temple columns, the woman in yellow frowned. He closed his eyes again. What was he supposed to have done? He had failed the child but he could not have outraced the barrels. There was no way to save her. Yet why did his tongue taste like ash? Why did despair press so heavily on his shoulders?

#

Wim paused at the foot of the narrow street. Halfway up, the barrel-laden wagon blocked the street, moving too slowly now to clatter on the cobbles. The sight stilled his breath. Closer, a child played. Why could he see her mother cradling her broken body even as the girl made her toy knight fight a dragon? At the top of the street, though he could not see her yet, stood a woman in yellow, the woman from the Last Wall. How did he know that?

An echo of a mother's cry wailed in his head. The pain of splintered bones lashed his every limb. And yet, his body was whole, the memory of being crushed and crushed again by barrels, what? A remnant of a dream?

It was an omen, nothing more. He turned away. There had to be another way to the temple.

He had not gone many paces when a rumble rose in the street he had forsaken. He kept his head fixed straight ahead, even when the last of the barrels disgorged from the narrow street and continued down the hill. But he could not help look back at the mother's wail.

When a gush of crimson beer flowed from the gutter of the narrow street, Wim ran.

#

He tried to forget the little girl crushed at play but he could not. A child he had never met haunted his dreams and hovered at the edge of his waking moments. He knew he had failed her, yet how could that be? It had something to do with the Last Wall. If he could bring himself to study it once more, perhaps he could find an answer. But he could not bear to gaze at it.

Some months after the girl died, he took Katrina for his wife. The watch-shop prospered. The two worked well together. The top floor became a cozy home. In time, they had their own child, Naolo. When she grew old enough to play with her own dolls, Wim found the memory of the other girl hard to hold at bay.

One day, Naolo played at his feet while he reassembled a clock on his workbench.

"Why do you sigh every time Naolo picks up a doll?" his wife asked.

Did he? He watched his daughter set out a tea party.

"A girl died, much like our little one," he said, as Naolo served her toys. "Killed while at play with her dolls."

Katrina's eyes widened. "How can you mention such a thing in our home?"

"I'm sorry. It was very sad."

"If there's a shadow on your heart, you must ask the gods to take it away."

His head felt light. The room seemed to darken. "An offering at the temple?"

"What has gotten into you?" Katrina said. "Make it a special offering, for all of us, for Naolo."

"I'll- I'll go now."

"Don't let this fester another day."

He left the house wearing a wool cloak against the rain, his white supplicant's robes beneath. His tongue cleaved to a dry mouth. His scalp prickled. Why did a simple trip to the temple put him off his ease? But he saw the little girl with her toy knight in hand and knew the answer. He did not want to go to the temple. Yet he had to, for Naolo and for Katrina.

In the street, a flash of yellow caught his eye and before he could stop himself, he turned, heart in his throat. But it was only a bedraggled chicken pecking in the gutter. Despite his dread, his eyes followed the street up the hill, to the Last Wall but today its spires and balconies were lost in mist.

He turned away.

"Enough of ghosts and nightmares." He took a deep breath and set off to the market district temple.

Only two vendors of sacrificial animals had bothered to come out in the rain. Both stood as he neared, gesturing to the stacks of cages behind them holding finches, doves, and piglets with a few goats bleating on tethers beside them. He purchased a goat after a brief haggle and led it inside. It was gloomy in the temple with just a hearth gone to coals for light. The priest did his work efficiently. Soon the goat's burning entrails fouled the air.

Why did the dead girl torment him so? He had not even been on her street when the disaster occurred, yet he could see exactly how the barrel had swept her away.

He left the temple and began to walk, heedless of his whereabouts until he found himself at the foot of the street where the wagon had lost its barrels.

Heart pounding, he made his way to the stoop where the girl had died. A man sat inside the doorway, smoking a pipe, listening to the rain.

"Do you know about the little girl killed here a few years ago?" Wim asked.

The man drew his pipe from his mouth. His clothes were patched. His gray beard was too sparse to cover much of his face. "Aye, she was my granddaughter."

Wim's tongue turned to wood. "I'm very sorry," he said, at last.

The man nodded.

"What happened to her mother?"

"Died last winter, heartbroken." Tears welled in the man's eyes.

Wim attempted to offer further condolences but he could not speak, not with the knot in his throat.

He turned away from the old man and looked up the narrow street. He was not surprised to see the woman in yellow beside the twisty pillars. Neither frowning nor smiling, there could be no mistaking whom she held in her gaze. He met her eyes for a time but the echo of the dead mother's wail blanched his soul. He looked away, looked down the street to see his 'ghostly self' walking toward him, bearing the two doves.

As the ethereal form began to ascend the steep roadway, a second version of himself turned away, seeking another path to the temple. A third appeared at the bottom, hesitating as it considered a wagon, long gone, blocking the road.

He should have saved the little girl. He should have tried harder.

Wim ran to the bottom of the street, skittering on the wet cobbles.

The first ghost had faded away as it began its upward journey. The second was already on its way to the next street. The third had just decided to ascend.

"Grab her!" he yelled to his other self. It took no notice, starting up the hill.

What could he do? His echoes continued on their set paths. He ran after the nearest one.

Wim touched the phantom and felt nothing, not even a chill. This was nonsense. The image was just a remnant of a dream. He should leave this place. But he could not, not with the ache in his heart for the lost little girl.

His ghostly form moved silently up the street. How could he tell it to save the girl? If he could only go back himself, before the barrels broke free. Was it possible? Maybe if he joined with the image? He drew a breath and stepped into the phantom. The image took no notice. A broken watch could not be slapped back together. Perhaps this, too, required care and precision. He matched the figure's pace, mirroring its limbs and head exactly.

Sunlight warmed him. His body tingled. The sky brightened. His cloak was gone. In his hand, he held the wooden cage with its pair of doves. Ahead, the little girl readied her toy knight to charge a clay dragon. Farther up, he sensed the dark bulk of the fateful wagon. Beyond that, he knew the woman in yellow watched, though he did dare to check.

He bolted for the girl and swept her into the doorway just as the strap snapped. The girl squealed in surprise. The mother rushed from her room, eyes first narrow in anger but widening when the barrels thundered by.

"My dollies!" the little girl cried.

The day darkened and Wim was once more on the rainy street. The sad, old man smoked his pipe.

The scent of roses wafted by.

"Well done," said the woman in yellow.

She stood at his side. Her perfect black ringlets glistening in the damp air. Her skin was clear as a baby's, her teeth dazzling white. She wore a long yellow, silk dress with full sleeves and a bodice of cream lace in a foreign style. Except for a belt of faun leather with many small pouches, she looked like a noble lady of another age. And with her clear, gray eyes and high cheekbones she might have stirred his heart had she troubled to smile. Instead, the copper taste of fear seared Wim's tongue.