Enclave

By Sarah Connell

illustrated by Joel Bisaillon

The moon crested the lip of the oculus and dusk crept into the hall until each reliquary wore a cloak of early night. The red light of the eclipse played across dusty offerings piled at the foot of the central archway, dappling the faded veil within. Even after a lifetime spent guarding the Enclave with its network of shrines and hidden chambers, standing beneath the gaze of the hall’s effigies during the annual eclipse still unnerved Keeper Goya.

For on this one night, the inner doors to the hall unsealed, allowing entrance to a single Keeper. He lit the incense and kept vigil.

The echo of shuffling feet broke the silence.

As the first star winked to life, the procession entered the far corridor. Goya withdrew into the shadows of a stone alcove. He kept as still and silent within the cowl of his gray robes as if he were another of the statues lining the hall. Nothing was known about these shrouded figures, not in the archives or among the other Keepers who guarded the Enclave. But all knew of these strange ones and called them the Sacrifice. They crept forward in a single line beneath golden veils that flowed from the crown of each head to pool crimson along the ground so that even their feet were kept a mystery. Breathing deeply of the scented smoke, Goya risked a small, thin-lipped smile in the shadows of his cowl. After cycles of waiting, the change had finally come in the form of a small figure trailing along at the very end of the line. Quiet as the rest, this one could be no older than a child, the first such seen in his lifetime.

The first Sacrifice swept through the incense haze and the shrouded head bent to part the veil before disappearing into the darkness of the inner archway. The procession continued until only the last one was left, the smallest. The child’s head turned toward him within the shroud and Goya found himself stepping forward out of the safety of the alcove. The small figure mirrored his gesture, coming forward so quickly that the hem lifted from the floor to bare skinny brown legs for the briefest of moments. The silence grew between them until Goya could feel his heart beating against his ribcage in anticipation. No Sacrifice had ever refused to enter through the veil. But then again, no child had worn the golden cloaks hemmed in crimson as if dipped in lifeblood.

Goya stepped forward. “Hello?”

At the sound of his voice, the figure turned and ran the few short steps to the archway. On reflex, Goya reached out, his hand grasping a fistful of silken fabric so that the shroud slipped off like smoke from a snuffed candle just as the veil parted. Beneath the shroud, the child wore a flowing black shift. Head shaved, eyes wide, Goya caught only a glimpse of the child’s face. Instead of fear or shock, the expression had been oddly blank, mirroring Goya’s own confusion.

For one mad moment, Goya moved to follow, his fingertips brushing the veil before pulling back as if burned. It had enveloped his fingertips like cold smoke. Trembling, he stumbled back and gripped the slippery shroud between thumb and forefinger. He’d broken the taboo and interposed himself into the procession. He was no longer merely a Keeper. The change had begun.

He tucked the shroud up his sleeve and opened the alcove’s door behind him, hobbling as fast as his stiff legs allowed. The corridor wound on in complete darkness. One finger trailed along the stone wall, counting empty voids he could only guess were doorways within the otherwise ceaseless stone of the wall to help guide him while the other hand crooked up the hemline of his robes to keep him from tripping. It was all he could do not to mutter to himself as he went. The walls listened, that was the first lesson every novice Keeper learned in the Enclave. Especially now that a change had begun amongst the timelessness of the warrens.

Not until he was safely out of the tunnels with the heavy wooden door shut behind him did he open his eyes. He stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. Now that the time had come to move forward with his plan, he struggled to find courage.

To his surprise, Goya straightened to find that the small vestibule stood empty. The archivists had yet to come for his account and he realized just how early he’d come back. There was still time before the chime marked the cycle’s end and the inner hall door locked for another cycle. Goya turned and scampered along a smaller passageway that sloped upwards, making sure to keep the shroud from slipping out of his sleeve.

The apothecary was a little-used part of the vast catacombs built closer to the surface to keep any damage from explosions to a minimum. Steam engulfed him as he entered, forming from a cacophony of bones being boiled in a geothermal pool nearby. He batted at a particularly large chaga mushroom hanging from the low ceiling and peered into the murk. A hooded figure bent over a central table. Hazel’s dark eyes peered out at him from behind white braids.

“Goya, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you still be in the Hall?” she called, confusion straining her already hoarse voice.

In answer, he closed the door behind him and pulled the shroud from within his sleeve. Hazel drew nearer, tying her braids into a loose knot. It wasn’t until she touched it that she realized just what he held.

“Is that – ?” she began before covering her mouth with a hand, eyes darting toward the closed door behind him.

“No one else knows. I came straight here,” he murmured.

He laid the shroud on her worktable where it slithered out as if fluid, forming a pool of gold in the dim light.

“Did you – ?” she hesitated before mustering the courage to continue. “Did you enter the veil?”

Goya knew the fear behind her words. Why did you break our one rule? He shook his head. “I pulled it off a Sacrifice… a child.”

Hazel cocked her head. “A child, but…but none have appeared in-”

“A thousand cycles, yes,” Goya finished for her. “Since the building of the Enclave.”

She edged around the table, eyes focused on the shroud.

He wet his lips. He could tell that fear was winning out over her curiosity. But he didn’t dare tell her that he’d been expecting this very thing on this very night – that he had, perhaps, started this change. Instead, he said, “Some say the Enclave began with the procession of a child and will end with one. This may be our only chance to leave.”

She crossed her arms. “You still think the veil is the way out of here?”

“You used to think that, too, remember?” He smiled, hoping it masked his own fear.

“The walls are there for a reason,” she said and rubbed her temples. “We don’t know what’s out there or why we’re here. You have access to the archives, don’t you?”

“We’ve been over this,” he cut in. “The archivists know as much as we do.”

She grew silent, staring down at the shroud. “A child,” she murmured. “This will cause mass panic.”

“No one else has to know.”

She looked up, her eyes sharp. “You’re not saying that we keep this a secret?”

“Just for now,” he said.

“The archivists will be on you as soon as they hear you’ve returned. We both know they’ve been waiting for something like this to happen. Even if you could lie to them, sooner or later they’ll find this,” she gestured to the shroud, “and you’ll be mushroom food.”

He swallowed. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I need you to report me.”

“Me?” She scoffed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I need to go back to the Hall,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. “And I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back out. Someone has to tell them.”

“You’re going back? Why?”

“I think I can make it through the veil,” he whispered. His hand trailed the slippery edge of the fabric, causing an echo of ripples along its surface. The hairs rose on the back of his arm.

Hazel had stilled at his words. “But you’re already locked out. The door only opens for today.”

“The day’s not over yet,” he said, grimly.

She tapped a long fingernail against the tip of her nose in thought. “No,” she finally said.

“No?” he echoed, fear coursing through him. His plan hinged on her agreeing.

“If I’m going to make a report, then I’m coming with you to see for myself.”

His heart skipped a beat. “With me?”

“As far as the veil. Then I’ll return here.”

He gripped the edge of the table. “But only one Keeper is allowed in the Hall at a time.”

“It seems, Goya, that you’ve already broken enough rules for a lifetime. It’s my turn.”

Ignoring his retorts, she walked out. He tucked the shroud up a sleeve and rushed to follow. The tunnels remained empty but even so, Hazel’s courage failed her when she stepped up to the door, her face draining of color.

“Hold on to me,” he whispered over his shoulder as he pushed it open. “And try not to speak. Voices carry in the warrens.”

“Who could hear us? I thought this part of the Enclave was long-ago abandoned?” she whispered back.

“Better to be safe.”

He felt her shudder against him as the door creaked shut behind them. Their steps took up a shuffle in the absolute darkness as their world shrunk to the widths of outstretched fingertips. Hazel’s breath, quickening into panic, came hot against his neck.

The tunnel felt longer than it ever had before and his heart beat in a hectic rhythm until his carefully counted steps reached their 900th mark. His knuckle brushed against the alcove and he pulled the door inward.

Hazel walked past him into the cool night air, staring up in awe at the oculus and the open sky beyond. “I had no idea,” she murmured.

Goya glanced up to the moon. He remembered the first time he had seen it after a life below ground. “You’re lucky,” he said, smiling despite the fear still gnawing at him. “It sometimes hides.”

A whisper reached into his stargazing and plucked him alert. They both turned slowly toward where the veil rippled. They waited, tensed. But the Hall was all silence.

Goya pulled the shroud from within his sleeve and let it flow down to his side. He felt as if it was being pulled toward the arch. His hand pushed against the veil and then through it without a backward glance. The other side was oddly cloying and warm. The moon shone down through the veil to alight upon a hole that gaped in the middle of a circular stone room. The shaft at the center of the room held an eerie darkness that was not quite empty.

He blinked into the gloom before movement caught his eye. There, in the shadow next to the hole, crouched a small figure in a silken shift, eyes glinting. He looked somehow older than he had mere hours ago and his features had become oddly familiar.

Goya started in surprise and began to sidestep. The shroud pulled through after him and along with it, Hazel, who had grabbed at the other end. She stumbled and fell against him.

“No!” Goya’s voice trailed off as the child stood.

“I couldn’t let you go alone!” she whispered hoarsely. Her eyes grew large and she spun around when she realized he was looking past her. Upon seeing the child walking toward them, she took a step back.

“Who are you?” Goya croaked.

“Who are you?” the child responded, gravelly voice straining at the syllables in an uncanny mimic of Goya’s own speech.

“We’ve been guarding this place for as long as we can remember,” Hazel said, trembling.

“You travel within the Warrens?” the child asked.

Goya met Hazel’s bewildered glance and shook his head. “We only come here. Otherwise, we keep to the Enclave.” He hesitated. “The Council thinks you are a sacrifice that must be paid for us to remain safe.”

“We are no sacrifice,” came the child’s gravelly voice and turned suddenly to the veil.

Goya sensed a shift in the shadows around them. “What – ?” he began to ask, but then realized that the moon had moved on in its arc. Fear ripped through him. “The door,” he breathed. The shadows flickered once more before shifting into stillness.

“What?” Hazel asked, turning too.

“Midnight is almost here. The doorway is about to lock.”

“We’ll be stuck here?” Hazel turned to the child who was backing to the hole at the center of the room.

Goya took two quick steps, grabbed Hazel’s arm and dragged her to the archway. “You have to leave.” But the veil remained unmoving as if turned to stone.

“Why won’t it let us out?” Hazel asked, her voice shaking.

“There is no leaving once you’ve entered.” The child only had eyes for the well of darkness between them. “Soon, there will be only shadows.” The child squinted at him. “If you wish to go back, you could always try to go forward. After all, a circle repeats.” He traced a slow finger around the hole as if in explanation.

Hazel met Goya’s eyes. “I know we can’t stay here.”

The child raised an arm and gripped the silken fabric. “I can lead you.”

Hazel gave a shaky nod and took hold of the other end with Goya in the middle. The child stepped off first. They were swiftly pulled down within.

Just as he’d first thought, the blackness of the pit was not empty air. Smoke enveloped Goya, filling him until it was as much in him as he was in it. He became buoyant in its wispy tendrils. There was no smell, light or taste, and if it weren’t for the downward pull, it would have been hard to separate himself from non-existence. But he clung onto the shroud with all he had as it slipped away. He tried to call out, but his tongue could not move against the smoke filling him.

A child’s hand reached into the darkness and tugged him outward into light and air. He knelt at the end of an alleyway.

“Where are we?” he coughed, looking around. Smoke trailed from every pore, from his fingernails and eyes like a doused brazier until he was empty. He coughed and felt as if something vital had been eaten away within.

The child stood nearby, looking even older than he had before. This time, there was no debating who he resembled; they were his own features. Goya rubbed a hand across his face in horror at the knowledge that this had all been his doing.

“I told you,” came the terse reply in that gravelly voice, “this is what comes next.”

“Where is Hazel?” he croaked.

“Ahead.”

Goya stood, shakily. This new place was much brighter than any room in the Enclave. He looked up, squinting, to see a dusky sky between the rooftops. “Are we outside?” He cringed.

“Yes.”

Goya gripped his cowl about his face in horror. “But if the Others see us, they’ll kill us.”

“I told you,” the child said, “this is not the same time as before.”

Goya looked around, instinct keeping him wary. No one went outside. The Keepers weren’t even sure if a door led outside, though there was one in the council chamber that held a single keyhole and no handle.

The child gazed beyond Goya’s shoulder. Confused, he glanced behind him just as a gate in the wall opened. Crimson hands reached out from the darkness and dragged him within.

Still dizzy from the portal, he kicked his legs out, but the hard grip of the hands held him in place. They sat him on a chair in a dusty circular room that felt oddly familiar.

“What do you want?” he cried in terror.

“You call us Sacrifice, I believe. But we are merely travelers.”

“Travelers?” he asked. “Where do you come from?”

“The same place you do.”

“The Enclave?”

“That world, yes.”

Goya swallowed. He had a sinking feeling he knew what these people were. “You live outside the Enclave?” he managed to ask.

“Once.”

“Others,” he breathed as horror washed through him. He’d heard stories of those who had stayed outside, the strangeness of them, their ability to mimic and sow chaos. No one knew why the Keepers had shut themselves within the Enclave or what had separated the two peoples. “What do you want with me?” he whispered, hoping he didn’t know the answer already.

“We want what you want.”

Goya looked up through his sweat-laced lashes. “I only want to go back,” he said. “To tell my people about the outside.”

“Yes, go back.”

He blinked. “Why would you bring me here only to let me go?”

The figure with the red hands pulled out a small key. “You know why.”

Goya swallowed back bile as he reached for the key. If they were right, then he really had no other choice. “Time is a circle,” he whispered. “What of Hazel?”

“I’ll show you to her.” The child stood and left.

After a moment, Goya followed. “How will we get back?”

“There is but one way forward. Don’t wander from the passage.”

“Why not?” found himself asking.

“You’ve seen one portal, do you really want to travel through the others?”

Goya swallowed.

“Even we do not go through them.” The reply was so faint, Goya was unsure if he’d heard correctly.

They stopped at a small door. “You’ll know where you are once you enter,” he said before leaving. Within, Hazel crouched, leaning against a wall seemingly unhurt and unchanged.

“Goya?” she croaked. “You look older.”

“It’s nothing,” he managed to say, shaking his head. “Are you okay?”

She licked her lips, nodding. “I was outside.” Her eyes darted to the door he’d just come through. “I think they are Others.”

“We have to go.” Without waiting for her, he turned to leave.

“Where are we going?” she hissed, following.

“To the Hall. I know the way.”

The curving corridor emptied out into a pillared hall. On the far side stood a small, shadowed alcove where he could just make out the gleam of an iron door in the ray of sunlight from the oculus overhead.

“Is this…?” Hazel began to ask.

“The Hall, yes. We’ve come in from the other side.” He pulled her on, not toward the alcove’s door but through the veiled archway.

On the other side, Hazel wrenched free just before the open pit in the center of the room. “Goya, what is going on?” she demanded, her voice quavering.

He shook his head, panting from the run and kneading a stitch in his side. He definitely felt older. “Don’t you remember, this is the next, our only hope to get back to where we began.”

“But the veil,” she said, gesturing to the archway, “it won’t let us out on the other side.”

“Only Sacrifices can pass through.”

Hazel’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what we are now?”

Goya edged toward the hole. “I can’t be sure.”

Footsteps sounded beyond the archway and a gold-shrouded figure stepped through. Without another word, the two locked eyes and jumped backwards, clutching hands at the last moment.

The smoke-filled abyss lasted shorter this time until Goya found himself leading Hazel back through the tunnels connecting the Hall to the rest of the Enclave. Disconcertingly, his eyes could pick up more of the shadows than they ever had before, turning the utter darkness of their surrounds into dusky charcoal smudges.

“Goya, do you see…” Hazel began, her voice echoing off the empty tunnel mouths around them.

He gripped her hand tighter. If the child had been right, then each of these tunnels led to a long-forgotten portal like the one beyond the veil. They burst through the door on the other side and fell in a heap gasping. Keepers from all over the Enclave came rushing up to them amidst candles and offerings. Goya did all he could not to catch his robes on fire in the tumult of worship.

“What is this?” Hazel called, wiping hot candle wax off her fingers.

A council member came forward, parting the onlookers. “What happened? It’s been a cycle.”

Goya glanced back to where Hazel stood surrounded by acolytes. In a hushed voice he said, “I have to get to the archives.”

The council member hurried on with Goya through the Enclave. Once inside, Goya turned. “Everything went as expected since we wrote my name on the slip and passed it through the keyhole.”

“And did you find it? The way out?”

From within his robes, Goya felt for the small key, hesitated, and then pulled it out to display amongst the wrinkles of his palm to the council.

The collective intake of breath brought a smile to his lips. They cleared a path for him to the back of the dais where a stone door stood. The key fitted easily into the lock.

“What are you doing?” Hazel’s voice echoed around the chamber. Goya turned. He’d expected this. Afterall, she’d been just as keen to find a way out as he.

Hazel barreled through the council’s attempts to stop her until she was panting next to him. “Goya, stop! You’ll kill us all or worse. We’ve seen what’s out there – who’s out there.”

“Yes, we do.”

She took a step back at the chill in his voice. Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to you out there?” she asked.

“What comes next has already been written.”

“Why did you bring me to the Hall if you knew all along?”

Something deep within him broke a little at her pity but he pushed it away. “I needed someone to go back and tell the council I’d made it through.” And then he whispered, “I never meant for you to follow me all the way.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I’ve been doomed to just this purpose ever since my name was written.” He turned back to the door and began to turn the key.

Hazel put a hand on his arm to stop him but she was too late. The door opened and on the other side stood a cloaked figure and behind the figure a long passageway wound out of sight that mirrored the rest of their Enclave.

“It can’t be,” someone said from the crowd.

“It was supposed to lead outside,” another whispered.

Only Hazel seemed to understand what stood at the threshold. She began to back away, attracting the Other’s attention.

“What – Don’t you remember me?” he asked, removing his hood and pulling a slippery gold cloth from within a sleeve.

Hazel swallowed. “But we left you behind, in that other world. You don’t belong here.”

Goya turned slowly. His voice mimicked the lazy nonchalance of the Other. “But we are the Keepers. We’ve always been here.”