Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 8

Noura Naysmith unlocked her apartment door with one hand. With her knee she hiked up the grocery bag she held in the other, rescuing it from a near catastrophic rendezvous with the floor. She flipped on the kitchen lights, plopped the paper bag on the counter, and undid the tidy black apron she had neglected to remove before leaving work. She reached into the shopping bag and took out a single frozen Chinese dinner, which she dumped without ceremony into a plastic bowl and set in the microwave then pressed the 'frozen entree' button and walked over to her computer desk.

It was a stifling evening in Edinburgh, uncommonly so for this early in the summer, so she threw open the window. The familiar view of Meadow Park greeted her, the very reason she had put her desk by this window, and she breathed in the night air. She awoke her sleeping computer with a mouse tap and sat down. Noura stretched her neck and prepared for her second job -- a job she was uniquely suited for.

She opened a database on her desktop and a list of ten names appeared. Each name was a puzzle, but she hummed as she clicked on “Wallace, Benjamin” and checked the “returned to family” box on his profile, noting the date. His case had taken a while, longer than most in fact, but she had finally been able to reunite Benjamin with his worried kin. The plane trip to Brazil had been expensive, true, but the satisfaction of seeing the joy on Mrs. Wallace's face when her lost boy rushed to her after two months of uncertainty had been worth the journey. It was always worth the journey.

They didn't all end so positively. Of the six names she had listed in her database, she was aware of only four that were waiting in Wayside for Noura to gather enough information about their families to reunite them. The three other names were children that had been reported missing in the news, names she had jotted down to check later, the next time she made the trip across the threshold and into the city of the lost. She hoped they showed up, that the wastes and its sometimes sinister inhabitants hadn't gobbled them up, metaphorically or otherwise. Two names on the list currently troubled her the most, but they at least were names she had faces for, as both were currently in the Viccars Orphanage.

She clicked on 'Cane (alias)' and rested her head on her hand as she went over the profile for the hundredth time. She was beginning to worry that Cane was a lost cause. The little boy had been out in the wastes for too long. The few flashes of memory he had of his life and his home were not enough for Noura to work with. Judging from his hair and eye color she guessed he was from Northern Europe, but that wasn't a particularly narrowing statistic.

“It could also be a terribly misguided guess,” Noura muttered to herself. After all, Noura herself looked for all accounts like she should be from India, but she'd lived all her life in Scotland with her Pakistani mother and milquetoast red-head father and had the brogue to prove it. Granted, she currently smelled like a curry shop, but hosting two shifts at her mother's restaurant, which had just received a tremendous review from Zagat's and was thus madly busy, accounted for that. She thought seriously about taking the night off and having a long luxurious bath, but instead she adjusted her glasses and tabbed to the next name on her list, her latest troubling case.

“Munroe, Grim.” He was fourteen, and had gone before the council a few days ago to present his story, one that didn't quite add up in Noura's notes.

She had sat in her honorary chair and scribbled in her pad as the boy Grim shared with the council the story of his mother and father, whom, he said without emotion, had died rescuing him when their home in Boise had set fire. He had been only nine. With no one else to claim him, the state gave him over to his only surviving relative, a sick and elderly grandmother, who lived in a bungalow in the woods outside of Pierre in South Dakota. She suffered from acute hearing loss and cataracts, as well as old-fashioned senility, and had disappeared when she wandered off into the woods alone while Grim was sleeping. This, Grim reported, had happened only a few weeks earlier.

His grandmother, bless her memory, had left Grim alone with fifteen cats and few supplies. In attempt to procure food for himself and the animals, he had followed the road to Pierre, but became disoriented in a thunderstorm and wound up in the Wastes.

Noura chewed the end of her pen as she reviewed the notes from Grim's sharing. A soft meow interrupted her thoughts and she looked down into the doleful eyes of an orange manx who pawed at her leg.

“Oh, Dinah! I'm so sorry, girl. Lord, I'm such a twit.” Noura jumped to her feet and shuffled into the kitchen with her pen still between her teeth, unearthing a lone can of Whiskas from her cupboard. The cat eyed her patiently, statuesque, then as Noura scooped the last of the can into the dish, she pounced on it with eager relish and purred her satisfaction.

“No worries, ol' girl. I'll restock in the morning.” She stroked the cat's arching back and grabbed at its stumpy tail before retrieving her own food from the microwave and returning to her desk.

“Maybe I should go see him myself, Dinah. What do you think?” The cat did not respond. “Yeah, I know he's not telling the truth, but maybe he's just...turned around or something.” She gnawed on her pen-top and it cracked loudly. “Bugger,” she said, throwing the broken pen in the trash where it joined several of its cousins, all of which had met similar fates. “I think I have evening shifts tomorrow. I could stop by in the morning. Probably best to catch him in the morning, eh? Probably be more in a chatty mood, I should think.”

Noura spent the remainder of the evening crouched over her computer like a monk translating an enciphered tome, filing in bits of information on the children of the Viccars and scrounging the internet for any hints that could lead to their families. As the clock on her microwave beeped once to signify midnight, she looked up, surprised that the evening had passed so quickly. Her eyes burned and her glasses pinched her nose. She stood up and tapped a button on her computer and the monitor blinked out.

* * *

Noura awoke as the sun crept through the inch of space at the bottom of her window shade. She fed Dinah some dry food and the cat meowed her indignation as the kibble tinkled into her ceramic dish.

“Yeah, yeah, ya brat. I'll go get some more of the mushy stuff.” She tousled the cat's orange ears and it shook its head in response.

Noura changed from her footed pajamas and into her exercise clothes and backpack and jogged to the local market, where she bought a dozen cans of cat food and a drinkable yogurt. The cans clunked and jostled as she jogged back home through Meadow Park, watching students sunbathing and families roughhouse with their children and pets. She returned to her apartment, sweaty and smiling and took a quick shower to wash the grime of her run away, then she drank her yogurt, stretched, and positioned herself with some ceremony in the center of her living room.

“Opening.” She said to no one in particular, and moved her hands down, palms flat as if pushing the center of her being down through the apartment floor and deep into the earth. She closed her eyes and pictured a vast empty plain.

She moved her right foot outward, fanning her hands in opposite directions.

“Grasp Bird's Tail.” She muttered. Somewhere near her, Dinah meowed. She shut out the sound and imagined the empty black sky and the stale smell of expectation.

She swept her left foot forward and circled her hands around.

“Hands like Clouds.” The gray dust, and the black metal gate and the rough cobbled street. The rustle of people on their way to the market.

“Step to Seven Stars.” The yellow street lamps glowed through her eye lids.

“Cross Hands.” There were echoed mutters around her, a language she could almost understand, but not quite. Just like every time before.

“Close Entrance.” She pushed her hands out and opened her eyes. Wayside greeted her as it had since childhood.

There was a small collection of people around her, all with curious smiles and hats in hand. They recognized her. Everyone in Wayside knew Noura Naysmith.

She smiled and pushed up her glasses, then nodded to a tall man with a dusty derby clutched in his fingers. She gave him a sign, one she had made up for the Waysiders for when she arrived -- a closed hand resting on an open palm. The man looked confused for a moment, then one of the other members of the bunch thumped him in the shoulder and exclaimed, “Shien Babel, forin'deer. Esh Noura Naeismeeth os E'il deer, uil'dun.”

“Gl'eith!” The man gave a start and blushed, fumbling with his hat so that he almost dropped it. He looked around for a moment at the group, as if unsure of what he was doing, then leaned in to Noura's ear.

“Know.” The word rang in Noura's mind, once again unlocking the forgotten knowledge of Babel. She smiled. “Thank you,” she said to the man.

He blushed anew, looking for all the world like a child that had just received an unexpected gift. “Oh m-my pleasure, Lady Naysmith. It is quite an honor, really.” He bowed, low and awkward.

Noura giggled and waved, then skipped off into the lower market, heading for the Viccars. Her spontaneous fan-club looked on as she melted into the crowd.

The smells and sounds of the market washed over her and she shut her eyes, basking in the manic energy around her. When she was a young girl, the lower market had been the highlight of her trips to Wayside. Even now, as the crowd parted and whispered around her, she recalled a time when she could wander, free and anonymous, through the countless stalls of exotic foods and sundries and ask innocent questions of the shopkeepers without having to navigate a sea of honorifics and apologies.

This was no longer the case. Noura was the oldest Emere, those select few non-Caravan members that could travel between the world of Wayside and the ordinary world at will. The oldest by far, in fact, having retained her ability nearly twice as long as any Emere before her. Ever since the Council had become aware of the unusual longevity of her gift, she had been granted certain unique rights and responsibilities and become a celebrity, recognized and loved by everyone in the city.

Usually it was a nice feeling. Occasionally it was a nuisance. Noura pushed her way through the market as politely as possible, the people crowded on all sides to get a glimpse at her. Even as the people moved to avoid her the sheer number of curious bystanders slowed her progress to a crawl.

It took her the better part of an hour to maneuver into the Pages District, the easiest outlet to the Viccars House. There the crowd thinned as it transitioned from eager market-goers to commuting scholars, who were more likely to have their heads down in an old book than to notice someone, even someone famous, pass them on the street. Noura breathed a sigh of relief. It had been so much easier when she was younger.

Noura reached the Orphanage and Ambrose Viccars, who was on his hands and knees in the flowerbeds in front of the building, beamed at the sight of her. He invited her in for lunch and a chat, but Noura declined, apologizing in earnest that she hadn't more time. She inquired on Grim.

“Ah, one of the new boys. Kinda quiet, that one. Must be all those teenage hormones.” Mr. Viccars gave a snort. “He's been out since dawn. I suspect he's off to see the young Murphy chap again, or Guardsman Osborne.”

Noura crossed her arms.

“Either way, he tends not to hang about here much. Came in with that unfortunate boy Cane, but that lad spends most of his time in the green. Doesn't seem too keen on the city. Oh!” Mr. Viccars snapped. “Well done with Benjamin Wallace, by the by.” Ambrose winked and Noura brushed off the compliment with a flattered wave. Ambrose laughed. “Now, now, don't be so humble, girl. You do a great service for those children, and you're not credited nearly enough.”

Noura laughed. “I promise, Mister Viccars, I get more than enough accolade. And besides, they owe you and Mrs. Viccars just as much, if not more. But thanks. I'm off too find our elusive Grim.”

Noura bandied back towards the Pages district. She detoured at the great library, where enough lost knowledge was kept to occupy every historian at Temple University for a dozen lifetimes, and took an alleyway that lead to the steamy streets of the Garment district. She would check Murphy Fish's before heading to the Barracks, where Osborne spent a majority of his non-Wasteland time. She didn't want to disturb him if he was busy. An image of the rugged Commander in his uniform swam before her and she almost ran headlong into the signpost marking her destination before snapping back to reality.

She walked up the small entrance path and knocked on the door of Madam Lenoire's Hotel and Laundry. There was a buzz and a thunk as the door unlocked. The entrance hallway was painted with Rococo flourish, white and rose and gold. Noura thought it looked as if someone had kacked up a chunk of Versailles and pieced it back together, but had no sooner turned to ogle a particularly wretched vase when a high sing-song voice shouted to her from down the hallway.

“Darling!” A lady in a violent purple miniskirt that she was much too old for came traipsing down the hallway; the white feather in her cabaret hat caressed the ceiling. A trail of blue smoke from a flat brown cigarette followed her like a wayward dog. She approached Noura as an old friend would and kissed both of her cheeks in turn. Noura accepted the greeting with stiff obligation. “Welcome to my maison du garment. What can I do for illustrious Lady Naysmith? Here to have a dress pressed? Or tailored? I can have one of our girls take your measurements at once.” Madam Lenoire reached down and before Noura had time to protest was she shouting down a copper messenging tube for a seamstress.

“No, really, I'm...just here to see one of your tenants. Is Murphy Fish at home?” Noura said as Madam Lenoire drew a lengthy drag from her Abdullah.

A white frocked young woman bounded in from downstairs and Madam Lenoire dismissed her impatiently with a bent hand and a scowl. She smiled once again at her guest. “Oh yes, Fish. No doubt that boy from the Orphanage is up with him. Probably listening to those ridiculous phonographs and disturbing the other guests.” She snuffed her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray by the door and lit another. “In my day we had real music. Piaf. Chevalier. I saw all the greats, you know, at Le Lido, when I was a girl --”

“I'd love to hear about it, really.” Noura interrupted, fearing a full-fledged recollection. “But I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

Madam Lenoire frowned and smoke rolled up from her mouth and into her nostrils. “Up the stairs. Number five.” She expelled the smoke, looking like a smoldering dragon.

Noura walked up the old staircase and into another hall. This one had apparently been appropriated from another building; the walls were wood paneling and quite the departure from the gaudy floor below. Oil lamps alternated with keystone-patterned door frames and each dark door sported a small polished copper nameplate indicating the room number. The strong fragrance of cedar filled the hall.

Noura stood in front of number five and was reaching up to knock when she heard someone muttering behind the door. She started as it swung open. Charlie Osborne was looking his feet and nearly mowed right over Noura, who gave out a yelp as his head knocked into her own.

“Oh!” Osborne looked up. “Noura Naysmith?”

“IcametofindGrim,” Noura rushed, rubbing her head.

Osborne shot a guilty glance at Noura's forehead. “Are you alright? Should we get some ice or something?”

Noura now noticed the two other people in the room. Grim and Murphy were sitting in front of a checker board, sharing concerned looks.

“No...no. Thank you Commander, really. I just wondered if I could have a word with Grim?” Noura dropped her hands to her sides.

“With me?” Grim stood up. “Aren't you in the Council?”

“Officially, yes. But I try to skip as many meetings as possible.” She beckoned to the door. “Want to take a walk? I just want to have a quick word, really.”

Grim's apprehension was palpable.

“I promise not to bite.” Noura smiled at Grim, her eyes darting to Commander Osborne.

“Go on, lad. Murphy and I need to talk anyway. Besides, Noura's not one for hidden agendas.” Osborne put a hand on Grim's shoulder and urged him to the door, giving Noura an obtuse grin.

“Right. Let's off. Five minutes, I promise. Then you can rejoin Murphy and Commander Osborne.” Noura turned from the group and started down the hallway.

“It's Charlie,” muttered Osborne as she walked away.

Noura, whose cheeks resembled radishes, and Grim, an rigid plank of mistrust, exited the hotel and began an awkward stroll through the Garment district. For a few minutes they were both lost in their own thoughts, then Noura spoke.

“So,” she said. “Do you remember your story?”

Grim stopped and rolled his eyes. “This again? Why does everyone care so much about my past? Besides, I've told your Council everything already.”

“Oh yes,” Noura said. “You certainly fed them a story, alright. A completely bollocks story.”

Noura was standing in what Grim could only describe as an attack stance. Had there been a phalanx of Nouras in front of him, Grim was certain they would form an impenetrable wall.

“Nu-uh. It...was all true,” said Grim, narrow-eyed.

“Pssh,” Noura hissed. “True. True like a paper canoe.”

“What do you care? Who are hell are you, anyway?” Grim turned away from her and became deeply interested in something across the street.

“Have you seen a forgotten, yet, Grim?” Noura asked, concern painting her words with impetus.

“...No.” Grim said without facing her.

“They're horrible. Like...zombies, only not the shambling rotting kind, but the frenzied, raging kind. They're all emotion, all anger and hate and fear and sadness. They cannot remember who they were, where they're from, what they are. What they have left is a sense of loss for something unremembered, and the frustration of never getting it back.”

Grim did not reply. He thought of Cane and how the boy couldn't even remember his own family. Was Cane on his way to becoming forgotten, then?

Noura tilted her head. “Making up a story here means slowly becoming that story. False tales don't have much substance, and so they're easily lost. Do you follow?”

“I guess,” Grim replied, staring off into the black sky. “Are you done now?”

Noura wanted to smack the back of Grim's head; wanted him to understand the severity of his situation. She sighed. “Just...find someone to confide the truth in. The real truth. Your story.” She crossed her arms. “That's all I have to say. Good luck.”

Grim turned back to her now. Noura was walking away from him. He felt like he had been rude, wanted to apologize before she left, but his pride restrained him.

A flash of metal in a second-story window above the retreating Noura caught Grim's eye. Something about the flash made his stomach leap and churn.

“Look out!” Grim shouted.

Noura turned, looked confused and then startled, as Grim rushed toward her in a panic. A crack rang through the air. There was a sharp ping and a shattering sound as the lamp post next to Noura's head sparked from the impact. She and Grim tumbled down together, a tangle, and the back of Noura's skull hit the pavement with a sickening thud. A look of shock flashed across her face for the briefest moment. Then she vanished.