emerge at eleven. What would be the fun in that? When the task falls to me, I won’t be so predictable. Perhaps I’ll race out at ten o’clock, or linger until noon. Maybe I’ll tweak the signal of success. Cross my fingers or cross my eyes.
I stare down at my hands. With each click of the minute hand, whispers grow. After twelve minutes, I shift, and a grown woman cries.
I squint into the tunnel. In the distance, a shape appears. I stand and approach, and the tension breaks. Behind me, the crowd sighs and cheers, their voices connected to my steps. The floor shakes and rumbles as all rise to join me in welcoming Father.
The clock clicks 11:16. The figure appears, and silence falls. A chilly, confused silence.
It’s not Father
.
But it must be my father. I glance over my shoulder and force a smile, to let them know it’s all right. But the truth forces the smile away and I stumble back to my chair.
It’s an Amongus. One without a dial.
It’s Mape
.
Sobs and screams fill the theater. The Amongus raises his hands for silence, and quickly receives it.
“New Pert, World, I bear good tidings from Massa.” He folds his arms over his chest. He nods toward the camera, as my father would, and proclaims, “The world is again reborn!”
Something is wrong. No cheers accompany this moment.
It’s not my father
.
“It was an excruciating exchange for our Deliverer. Wrong turns were made. An exhausted Massa authorized me to deliver the comforting word. He will be available to speak after his recovery.”
He doesn’t make wrong turns
.
“Where is Massa now?” a lone man calls from a back row, giving voice to my heart.
“He is resting comfortable on the PM’s isle. However, the PM has made a decision. The PM, the one whose wisdom hascreated the comforts we enjoy, the upholder of peace in this world …”
He continues, reciting the words we recite each morning in school, and my mind wanders.
Wrong turn? There are many things I hold against Father — his unwillingness to talk of my mother, his unwillingness to tell me why I feel so Other. He alone could understand the pangs of loneliness that strike.
But a wrong turn? His dedication to the route makes this impossible.
“… this great man has determined that Massa’s time as our Deliverer has come to an end. Massa’s errors have shown that the burden has become too great to bear. Yet the Fates have smiled on us and our children, because as one Deliverer rests, another has emerged. The new Deliverer is of age!”
From out of the tunnel march three more men. They approach my chair. “Come, Luca.”
I glance beyond them into the tunnel. “Where is Father? None of you have the right to use the Birthing tunnel. Only a Deliverer may walk it.”
One lifts me by the shoulders and spins me around. “World, behold your new Deliverer!”
I look over the confused crowd, their faces a reflection of my own. One by one, they reach out cupped hands.
And it sinks in. A different, more terrifying exchange has just been made.
“No,” I yell. “My father is your Deliverer, he’ll be fine following his rest.” More hands stretch toward me. “When has he ever failed you?” I turn to the nearest Amongus. “Where is he? Where have you taken him?”
“Smile for the world,” he whispers. “Your father is undone.”
I shake — a tremble that weakens my legs and speeds my heartbeat. The world starts to spin, and I break free from his grasp and run into the tunnel.
“Father Massa! Father, where are you? Please … please …” I’m quickly surrounded.
A face blurs through my tears, an Amongus, but I don’t care that he watches me weep. “Luca, we need you now. After your schooling is completed, we will take you to the PM for the official transference of all that belonged to Massa, but for now, your face must hold steady. The world looks to you now. You, Luca. You may mourn later without consequence. Do you understand?”
No, I don’t!
My head swims,
I stare down at my hands. With each click of the minute hand, whispers grow. After twelve minutes, I shift, and a grown woman cries.
I squint into the tunnel. In the distance, a shape appears. I stand and approach, and the tension breaks. Behind me, the crowd sighs and cheers, their voices connected to my steps. The floor shakes and rumbles as all rise to join me in welcoming Father.
The clock clicks 11:16. The figure appears, and silence falls. A chilly, confused silence.
It’s not Father
.
But it must be my father. I glance over my shoulder and force a smile, to let them know it’s all right. But the truth forces the smile away and I stumble back to my chair.
It’s an Amongus. One without a dial.
It’s Mape
.
Sobs and screams fill the theater. The Amongus raises his hands for silence, and quickly receives it.
“New Pert, World, I bear good tidings from Massa.” He folds his arms over his chest. He nods toward the camera, as my father would, and proclaims, “The world is again reborn!”
Something is wrong. No cheers accompany this moment.
It’s not my father
.
“It was an excruciating exchange for our Deliverer. Wrong turns were made. An exhausted Massa authorized me to deliver the comforting word. He will be available to speak after his recovery.”
He doesn’t make wrong turns
.
“Where is Massa now?” a lone man calls from a back row, giving voice to my heart.
“He is resting comfortable on the PM’s isle. However, the PM has made a decision. The PM, the one whose wisdom hascreated the comforts we enjoy, the upholder of peace in this world …”
He continues, reciting the words we recite each morning in school, and my mind wanders.
Wrong turn? There are many things I hold against Father — his unwillingness to talk of my mother, his unwillingness to tell me why I feel so Other. He alone could understand the pangs of loneliness that strike.
But a wrong turn? His dedication to the route makes this impossible.
“… this great man has determined that Massa’s time as our Deliverer has come to an end. Massa’s errors have shown that the burden has become too great to bear. Yet the Fates have smiled on us and our children, because as one Deliverer rests, another has emerged. The new Deliverer is of age!”
From out of the tunnel march three more men. They approach my chair. “Come, Luca.”
I glance beyond them into the tunnel. “Where is Father? None of you have the right to use the Birthing tunnel. Only a Deliverer may walk it.”
One lifts me by the shoulders and spins me around. “World, behold your new Deliverer!”
I look over the confused crowd, their faces a reflection of my own. One by one, they reach out cupped hands.
And it sinks in. A different, more terrifying exchange has just been made.
“No,” I yell. “My father is your Deliverer, he’ll be fine following his rest.” More hands stretch toward me. “When has he ever failed you?” I turn to the nearest Amongus. “Where is he? Where have you taken him?”
“Smile for the world,” he whispers. “Your father is undone.”
I shake — a tremble that weakens my legs and speeds my heartbeat. The world starts to spin, and I break free from his grasp and run into the tunnel.
“Father Massa! Father, where are you? Please … please …” I’m quickly surrounded.
A face blurs through my tears, an Amongus, but I don’t care that he watches me weep. “Luca, we need you now. After your schooling is completed, we will take you to the PM for the official transference of all that belonged to Massa, but for now, your face must hold steady. The world looks to you now. You, Luca. You may mourn later without consequence. Do you understand?”
No, I don’t!
My head swims,
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