Free Aquifer by Jonathan Friesen

only once, and then never discussed again.
    In this way, it’s like my mother.
    “We will knock and wait. Once we are permitted entry, follow me quickly inside. I will take my leave of you and return here. The Curator will guide you through the Hall.” Teacher pauses at the door but does not turn. “Should you feel ill or faint, you may return to me. Feel no disgrace if you must leave early. It is a most … disquieting place.”
    I glance at my twenty agemates. One boy and one girl already look green. They will not last long.
    Teacher opens the door and we file in, the thick, wooden door closing silently behind us. I gasp.
    It is beautiful. Statues, marble and perfect, stand in all stages of undress. The ceiling lofts high above, and is covered with an image, striking and vibrant and lifelike. It’s a man, his arm outstretched and powerful, attempting to touch the finger of a smaller, desperate figure. Who has the skill to create such a thing? Who knew such a thing existed?
    I break my gaze from the ceiling and my brow furrows. My agemates and my teacher shield their eyes and stare down at the marble floor, their faces visibly shaken. Many clasp their hands and slowly raise their pointer. Right finger, then left finger. Relaxation exercise number three.
    “It is called a painting, and it will remain on the ceiling,” Teacher says. “You may be experiencing a … concern. That is normal. It will pass when we are through the entry room.”
    “I don’t want to stay here,” Kyrie whispers. Normally a pretty, self-assured Sixteen, her body trembles. She backs slowly toward the door.
    “Then you should go.”
    The voice is strong and comes from behind me. I spin.
    This woman’s skin is unlike that of New Pertians. It is creamy and smooth, like the marble around us. Her hair is dark, as are her eyes. For an Older, she is beautiful.
    “I am the Curator of the Hall. Fear is what you are feeling now, though you will not be told this in school. I assure you that there is nothing to fear above … or below. I would like to give you a tour, but if you cannot endure beauty, you certainly cannot endure the exhibits.”
    She pauses and stares at me. “Hello, Luca. I’m especially glad you’ve come.”
    “Uh … me too.”
    “Class,” says the Curator, “unclench your hands and gaze upward.”
    Ten. Ten do. “Teacher, you may take the fearful out onto the steps. No doubt I will be sending you more shortly.”
    Teacher seems happy to leave, and when the door closes behind us, the Curator places her hands behind her back, staring at each remaining student in turn. “What you just were is brave. It is another feeling. It often holds hands with confusion, that sense of not knowing what course of action to take.”
    “How can you speak so freely of feelings?” I ask. “Aren’t you afraid of the …” I glance about the room. “The Amongus?”
    At the mention of them, six more agemates leave. Four remain.
    “Their dials do not work within this stone, but I do not think I would alter my welcome if they did.” One more student out the door.
    “So I have three. Three ready to experience the Hall of the Old. Prepare to feel.”
    The other two retreat, and the Curator gestures me forwardthrough a marble arch. I peek at her, and she smiles. Not the cold smile of outside, but the warm one. The one I saw on Father before …
    I step into a room filled with pedestals. It’s different, but not disturbing. “This is it? This is the Hall of the Old?”
    The Curator nods. “In this room, you will find history’s greatest threats to humanity. That is, if you believe what I am going to tell you.” She winks.
    “Should I believe you?”
    The Curator gently bites her lip. “What a marvelous question! Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
    I cock my head. “But how will I know?”
    “You won’t. But trust your feelings. Trust that sense inside, the sense that will, if allowed, become a Voice. It no longer speaks to your agemates,