The GoldenCity

Gabriel had once seen photographs of an army sniper wearing something called a ghillie suit-a ragged assembly of dark green fabric that changed a person’s silhouette and allowed him to blend into the countryside. The dark man stepping through the doorway had created a similar costume for hiding in the corridors of the abandoned museum. Swatches of gray and black fabric were sewn together in a haphazard manner to make a smock and trousers. Rags were wrapped around the man’s shoes. A gauzy black veil hung from the brim of a hat and covered his face. Silently, the dark man glided across the courtyard before stopping ten feet away from Gabriel.

“Matthew Corrigan told me that he had two sons named Gabriel and Michael.”

“And who are you?”

The ghost hesitated and then raised the veil covering his face. He was a tired-looking older man with thinning hair and very pale skin. Even his brown eyes seemed to have lost most of their color.

“I’m the museum director. When I woke up that first morning, the keys to the museum and some paperwork for a new installation had been left in my apartment. A bill for a new display cabinet was in the folder and my name was at the top of the page.” The man closed his eyes as if reciting a sacred incantation. “Mr. T.R. Kelso is my name. At least, that’s what the document indicated…”

“How did you manage to survive?”

“I hid in the museum during the first wave of fighting and remained here during the different regimes. So far, we’ve had one emperor, two kings and various generals.”

“Do you remember when the Commissioner of Patrols was in charge?”

“Yes, of course. He’s dead now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“We don’t have clocks and calendars here.”

“I know that. But does it feel like a long period of time?”

“It was recent,” Kelso said. “The current leader is called ‘the Judge,’ but there have never been any laws on the island.”

“I’m looking for an outsider, a woman who is a very good fighter.”

“Everyone knows about her,” Kelso said. “Sometimes, I leave the museum, hide in the walls and listen to the patrols. This woman frightens the wolves. They tell stories about her.”

“Is she still alive?”

Kelso surveyed the entire courtyard as if expecting an attack. “It’s dangerous to stand here. Follow me.”

Gabriel followed the ragged figure back into the museum and through the vandalized display areas. Bits of glass and crockery covered the tile floor and they crunched and cracked beneath his shoes. The dark man’s movements were completely silent. He knew where to step and what to avoid. Finally, they reached a room with a mural that showed men and women in blue overalls working the levers of enormous machines. Someone had attacked the picture with an ax or a knife, destroying every face.

They reached a wooden door with a smashed lock in one of the corners. Kelso opened it cautiously, revealing a staircase and a dried-out corpse hanging from a noose.

“What happened?”

“You mean the dead man? I found the body on the street and hung it up here. This is better than a lock or secret entrance. People open the door, see the body and turn away. You would think they’d go up the staircase, but that never happens.”

Kelso slipped around the corpse, and Gabriel followed. They climbed up a circular staircase that ended at the top of a tower with a stone balustrade. It was a perfect place to survey the island-the shattered buildings, the over-grown parks and the dark river. Gas flares rose up from different parts of the city and smoke drifted past the jagged spires of the half-destroyed buildings.

“In the beginning, this really was a museum. The historical exhibits were on the ground floor and works of art were displayed in a first floor gallery. Whoever designed this place paid a great deal of attention to the details. The relics and antiques have vanished, of course, but I’ve done a study of the display case labels. All of them are very specific, mentioning the Twelfth Era or the Third Regime. The island once had a recorded history, a shared story about the past.”

“So when was the Third Regime?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a special book or a government report, but I haven’t been able to find it. The people living here can understand what history is, but we can’t remember the past. History doesn’t exist in this world.”

“And what kind of art was upstairs?”

“Painful images.”

“Torture? Murder?”

Mr. Kelso smiled for the first time. “It was something much worse than that. The museum had paintings of mothers and children, food and flowers, epic landscapes of great beauty. Naturally, the people trapped here hated these images. One of our first dictators said that the gallery confused people and caused discontent. So a squad of men smashed all the sculpture with hammers and burned all the paintings in an enormous bonfire. In this world, the foolish are proud of that fact. They find strength and certainty in their own ignorance.”

“It’s your world, too.”