Free Alexandria by John Kaden Page B

tomatoes sit lined up for her, and begins washing and rinsing. Those tiny hairline fractures in her mind become rough tears and she can feel herself cleaving in two. Part of her is here, in this kitchen, doing this work… and another part of her is somewhere else entirely.
     

     
    Jack’s shoulder throbs with dull pain as he swings his pickhammer down, sending a burst of stone chips and shards flying into his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has hammered on this one line all day and most of yesterday. It chips away so slowly he would swear that it grows back at night when everyone is sleeping.
    He has lost track of days, he only knows that one full moon cycle has passed. At their nightly raucous campfire dinners, when everyone is bursting with chatter, Jack sits off to the side and watches that lonely white disk wax and wane, it being the only thing of familiarity to look upon.
    Braylon is gone on a trip back to the Temple. He is older and stronger and they are teaching him how to lash the great stones to the sledge and guide them over the rolling timber. Jack squints against the sun and sees Aiden two steps below him, wielding his pickhammer in similar fashion.
    Under Jack’s shirt is a collage of blue and yellow bruises, mementos from Halis. The punishment is discreet, never in front of anyone else, and Halis is always careful to avoid hitting his face. He looks around and doesn’t see him anywhere.
    “Whatcha stopping for, Jack?” barks Karus. “Those rocks don’t cut themselves!”
    Jack turns back to the narrow groove that torments him and levies another bone-jarring hammer strike against his chisel. The hot sun bounces off the light stone of the huge quarry and makes it look almost glowing. It is otherwise barren and dusty, lunar and forlorn.
    After his shift he will meet up with Aiden, but they have less and less to talk about as the days go on. Peaceful solitude is becoming more consoling than forced conversation anyhow, and he finds himself staring off dumbly at the horizon, trying unsuccessfully to push all thoughts from his mind.
    When he sleeps he has the same recurring dream of his empty village. Usually his mother is there, shimmering, and he runs toward her. Sometimes she is gone and he simply walks alone through the burning village, immune to the scorching heat. He crosses that old stone promenade, a whirlwind of firestorm around him, looking for any traces of those he loves and finding none. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of these nocturnal visions and remembers them. Other times the end of the dream deteriorates into a kaleidoscope of abstraction and he awakens hours later with no recollection.
     

     
    Lia sits on the corner of her small bunk and runs her fingers through her long hair to loose out the tangles. The other girls are bustling about, making their beds and folding their nightgowns, stowing them away in their little cubbies and getting dressed for the day. They smooth down the wrinkles on their linen dresses and pull on their leather slippers. Sena sits calmly by the fire, nursing one of her babies. She has taken to bringing them around to show off to the girls. The other infant rests in a low bassinet off to the side of the mantle and Jeneth makes googly eyes at her. The baby girl peels out a spirited giggle when Jeneth pops up, then returns immediately to stoic seriousness every time she ducks away and hides. Phoebe watches with total amusement.
    “She likes you,” says Sena.
    “I love babies. She’s so quiet, doesn’t she ever cry?”
    “She’s my good one. This little guy here is the troublemaker.”
    “Can I hold her?”
    “Of course, here.” Sena scoots forward and helps lift the baby into her arms.
    Jeneth’s eyes mist over as she looks at the tiny face. “Oh, I want one just like her. She’s so cute.”
    Sena smiles and rocks back. There is a knock at the door.
    “Lia, Haylen, you ready to go?”
    It’s the kitchen steward