Life Partner - Part II

By Bettyann Moore

That night, I have a dream, the first one I’ve had since the Nursery.

I am back in the Pleasure Dome. I feel hemmed in, surrounded, as if on a crowded dance floor, but I’m alone. There is a door, one I’ve never seen before, far off in the distance. I move toward it, my bare feet quiet on the cool surface of the walk. I see myself in one CU-Screen after another as I pass them. As I near the door, I hear footsteps behind me, rapid, loud and echoing. The door swings open and there is light beyond. The footsteps draw nearer, but the door seems to have gotten farther away, not closer. I increase my pace, but on the screens I appear to be moving in slow-motion. Now running, I see the door begin to shut. The footsteps behind me have increased in number. I reach the door just as it’s about to close. I push through it and slam it behind me.

Again, I am alone, but breathe deeply, freely. I take a step. The door reopens, an arm snakes through, grabs me and pulls me back. I scream and I scream, but no sound comes out.

That night, I have a dream, the first one I’ve had since the Nursery.

I am back in the Pleasure Dome. I feel hemmed in, surrounded, as if on a crowded dance floor, but I’m alone. There is a door, one I’ve never seen before, far off in the distance. I move toward it, my bare feet quiet on the cool surface of the walk. I see myself in one CU-Screen after another as I pass them. As I near the door, I hear footsteps behind me, rapid, loud and echoing. The door swings open and there is light beyond. The footsteps draw nearer, but the door seems to have gotten farther away, not closer. I increase my pace, but on the screens I appear to be moving in slow-motion. Now running, I see the door begin to shut. The footsteps behind me have increased in number. I reach the door just as it’s about to close. I push through it and slam it behind me.

Again, I am alone, but breathe deeply, freely. I take a step. The door reopens, an arm snakes through, grabs me and pulls me back. I scream and I scream, but no sound comes out.

Still screaming, I’m wrestling with my captor, clawing, kicking, pushing.

“Diana, wake up! You are having a bad dream. Wake up, Diana!”

Boone has his arms wrapped around me, holding me as I finally awaken. I’m hot. My face is wet. Diana, who never cries, is sobbing.

“All is well,” Boone says, rocking me, rubbing my convulsing back. He begins to hum something I don’t recognize. He brings his hand to my neck.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word; mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. If that mocking bird don’t sing, mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring ...”

I don’t understand all the words, but I feel myself calming, breathing steadily. He rocks and sings to me until I fall asleep.

In the morning, he’s still holding me. I feel flattened, raw and bruised. He brings his fingertips to my neck.

“My apologies,” he says. “We will discontinue our exploration if you like.”

The dream flashes through my head, causing me to shiver. I put my head against his and shake it slightly. I want to continue, I’m saying, and he understands. I rise to shower while Boone remakes our pallet. The Ancient awaits.

My day with the Ancient One is strange from the beginning. His head humbot meets me at the door, then leads me to a room which I’ve never seen before.

“My master wishes you to wait for him in the library,” he says, then leaves me alone.

I have no idea what a “library” is, but I think it must mean a funny-smelling room lined with shelf upon shelf that are filled with colorful rectangles of various widths. There are two chairs made of a smooth, shiny substance I have never encountered before. Of course I know what a desk is, but this one is constructed of a deep red material; its expansive top reflects the light from an odd fixture overhead. It seems to be made of many sparkling prisms of glass. On top of the desk sits a ball-like object on a pedestal, its surface is bumpy in some areas, smooth in others. It’s mostly blue, with irregular shapes in browns and greens. Beneath my bare feet is a cushiony expanse of brightly patterned floor covering. I’d like nothing more than to lie down on it.

Instead, I take a few steps inside, looking back over my shoulder at the door. For the first time I can ever recall, I don’t know what is expected of me. The room is odd, yet comforting. Frightening, but intriguing. Most intriguing to me, however, is the ball on top of the desk.

The closer I get, the more intriguing it becomes. Each of the brown and green shapes are divided into smaller shapes by jagged lines. There are markings, some bold and black, some wispy, inside the shapes. I see a plaque on the base with more markings and below them, something I can actually decipher, numbers: 2011. Does this mean the object was created in the year 2011? If so, it is extremely old, older even than the Ancient One I serve.

Close enough to touch it now, I do, then jump back as it spins slightly. Then I jump again as a gnarly hand comes down on my shoulder.

“What are you up to, girl?” the Ancient’s creaky voice demands.

“My apologies,” I say, looking at the floor. My heart drums in my chest and my head spins.

“A good non-answer,” the Ancient says. Is there laughter in his voice? He takes his hand from my shoulder and gives the object a spin, then walks to the other side of the desk.

I can’t take my eyes off the spinning ball, which is beginning to slow down.

“Do you know what that is?” the Ancient asks.

“No, Ancient One, I do not,” I say, finally meeting his eyes.

“Ugh,” he says. “Don’t call me that.”

Surprised, I ask, “What shall you be called?”

“Call me Ishmael,” he says, then throws back his head and laughs, though I don’t know what is funny.

He eases himself into the chair behind the desk, which creaks, though at first I think it is he who creaks.

“Right,” he says, “you don’t get the joke.” He sighs and leans back in the chair, which leans with him. He seems to be thinking. Naturally, I don’t interrupt. He rights himself suddenly, as if propelled, and gives the ball another spin.

“This,” he says, “is a model of our earth – at least how the earth was at one time. It’s called a globe.”

I freeze. He used the word “earth” just as Boone had. The planet earth he called it.

“That’s very interesting,” I say, making it sound like it’s not interesting at all. In truth, I hope he goes on.

He stops the spinning globe with a jab of his finger. “This,” he says, “is where we are right now.” He’s pointing to the middle of a large green area. “Of course, the blue, which represents the oceans, is considerably larger now. It’s practically lapping at our feet.”

I automatically look down at my feet. He laughs again. “I forget what an innocent you are,” he says. He puts the palms of his hands together and brings them to his chin and seems to be thinking again. He suddenly waves his hand at me. “Sit, sit,” he commands. I perch on the edge of the closest chair, but it’s slippery so I move back a bit.

“It’s called leather,” he says. “Made from the hide of a cow.”

I cock my head. I’ve heard so many unfamiliar words in the last few days.

“Here, look.” He goes over to the tall shelves and runs his fingers over the rectangles until he finds what he’s looking for and slides it out. He comes to the other side of the desk and sits on the chair beside me. He holds the rectangle on his knees. There are markings on it as well as a picture of a strange-looking creature.

“This is a cow,” he says, pointing. “We … people … used to get milk from it to drink, meat from it to eat, and skin from it to cover ourselves … and our furniture.”

I am trying mightily to understand what he’s telling me. I say nothing.

“They’re all gone now,” he says wistfully. “In fact, almost every single animal in this book is gone, except the rats and cockroaches.” He picks up the rectangle and places it in my lap. I lean away from it; I don’t know what he wants me to do.

“Go ahead, open it,” he says.

“Open it?” I ask.

He sighs and pulls the rectangle back onto his own lap. “This is a book,” he says. “It happens to be about mammals. This is its cover,” he adds, pointing to the top with the picture. “One opens the book, like so, to see what’s inside, to learn from. These are pages and one turns them. They’re made of paper that came from trees.” He demonstrates each thing he says. I see that on the pages there are many more squiggles and many more colorful pictures of strange beings. I’m delighted and it must show as he is beaming now. He places the open book back on my lap.

“Turn the pages,” he says.

My fingers are clumsy on the thin pages, but I manage to turn one. There is a picture of a brown creature with a long nose, pointy ears, four skinny legs and a long bushy thing on the opposite end of its head. I look at Ishmael.

“I forget that you can’t read,” he says, sighing. “That’s a horse, a magnificent creature that could run as fast as the wind. People used to ride them, at first to get from one place to another, then later just for fun.”

We spend a long while looking at the book. Each new creature is more amazing than the last. I am only beginning to understand that people once shared the earth with them. It must have been very crowded. After a while, I look up at Ishmael and see that his eyes are drooping; he’s falling asleep. His head snaps up.

“So very tired today,” he says, taking the book from my hands and replacing it on the shelves. I look at all of the books and now that I know what they are, I marvel. So much knowledge! Ishmael goes to another shelf and pulls a very thin book from it and hands it to me. There is a picture of two children, one boy and one girl, on the cover. They’re playing with a ball.

“Dick and Jane,” Ishmael says. “It was used to teach young children how to read. The next time you come, I’ll use it to teach you how to read. I could, of course, use a computer to teach you, but this will be ever so much more interesting.”

My eyes get big and I stare up at him.

“I know, I know, it’s treason,” he says, though that word means nothing to me. “No one must know that you were in this room, let alone looking at books.” He makes his words harsh, a warning.

My mind flashes to the start of the day. “Your humbot?” I ask.

Ishmael waves my words away. “He’s already been taken care of,” he says. “A little electronic eraser in the ear … it never happened.”

I shiver, thinking of Boone.

“Time for you to leave,” Ishmael says, to my surprise. I have yet to perform my PillowPartner duties which, somehow, don’t seem so unappealing today. He takes me by the elbow and leads me to the library door. “See yourself out,” he says, “humbots will meet you outside to escort you home.”

I hesitate. For the very first time in my life, I feel the need to ask something.

“Why?” I say, looking up at him. He understands what I’m asking. He takes his hand from my elbow, lets it drop to his side and looks down at our feet.

“Maybe,” he says, “I’m lonely. Or maybe I’m just tired and bored. And maybe,” he says, raising his eyes to meet mine, “it’s just because I can.” He opens the door for me and as I slip past him, he slaps me hard on the bottom. It feels like a reminder.

As I make my way home, my head is brimming with all the things I want to share with Boone. I’m momentarily deflated, though, when I remember that I must not talk about such things aloud unless we are at the ocean and I’m wearing a mask. Then I’m suddenly confused; Ishmael warned me about saying anything, but surely Boone is an exception. I’m torn.

My mind is still spinning when the door to my chamber slides open. I pause, even more confused. Inside stand four muscular humbots, facing me. Over their shoulders I see Boone, looking straight ahead, his eyes flat and cold, more robot than humbot. Another large humbot is holding a device against Boone’s ear. It blinks red and orange.

“We understand that you had a bad dream last night,” one of the humbots says to me. “We would like you to tell us about it.”