The greater Toronto area is expected to reach a population of 800, 000 before the end of 2370.
—Newscast on The Solar Flare, August 29, 2370
It takes forever to get off the airship and pick up our luggage in the vast docking port because of the crowds. St. Pearl is the only city I’ve known. I expected Toronto to be similar, but it’s much larger, and I can already see that living here is going to be different. When we finally get outside, Erica raises her hand for a taxi and gives the driver our new address.
“I can’t get over how clean the air is,” she says after a few minutes.
“It’s great,” the driver says, “except for the shortages. But it’s been like this for a long time now. You must be visitors. Where do you come from?”
“Terra Nova Prefecture,” Erica says. “I live in a small village on the west coast, Kildevil, but Blake has been studying in St. Pearl.”
“That’s so far away. What brings you here?”
“I’ve come to sit on the Justice Council,” Erica says.
Her words have an immediate impact on the man. He sits straighter. When we stop at a traffic light, he turns for better look at Erica. “You’ve really come to serve on the Justice Council?” I hear the awe in his voice. “Do you mind if I ask why you were chosen?”
I know Erica won’t tell him. All those years of secrecy are still ingrained in her. It’s easier for me to remember we can speak openly now. I was only involved in the struggle to change the government near the very end. “Erica helped lead the resistance in Terra Nova,” I tell him.
The driver gives a low whistle of disbelief. “It’s an honour to meet you. People are so sick of waiting for elections. Two years now. Those riots last spring were inevitable. The Justice Council is the first hope we’ve had.” Erica smiles. Whenever the traffic stops us, the driver glances back, looking at Erica as if she’s rare and special. Which she is.
The busy auto-route soon gives way to quiet streets.
Houses are sparsely scattered among grassy lots that show faint traces of foundations. Most of the houses are new, but some are strange. “I’ve never seen houses like those,” I tell Erica.
“This area has a lot of the older houses. They’re early- to mid-twentieth century, more than three hundred years old. It’s an odd quirk of history. Houses were built soundly in the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth, so many survived. After World War II, builders weren’t so careful, and the later houses barely lasted a century. Of course, the ones that survived have been retrofitted to use advanced technology like any other house.”
I smile. Erica sounds like a historian today, more than she did when we were home. Coming back to Toronto must make her remember the life she once had here. “But how did they survive the Dark Times?” I ask.
“People might have lived in them, or maybe they were abandoned and rebuilt after civilization was restored,” she replies. “We don’t know much about the twenty-second century-that’s why it’s called the Dark Times. But most of the older houses are gone. All these empty lots had houses on them once. The city supported a much larger population, too; three times as many people lived here before the eco-disasters of the twenty-first century.”
We leave the pretty houses and trees behind, turning onto a broader road. “Bloor Street,” Erica says. “This is one of the main streets in the city. Look at all the shops, Blake.”
“This isn’t the most direct route,” the driver says, “but I thought you’d like to see the neighbourhood.”
Street vendors have set up carts on vacant lots. We pass the facades of a few bigger buildings that must be malls. Suddenly, we’re stopped by heavy traffic. Ahead, I hear drums and whistles.
“Oh, man. Is this Saturday? I should’ve remembered to stay off Bloor.” The driver hits the steering column with the heel of his hand.
“What is it?” Erica asks. “It sounds like a parade.” “We’d be lucky if it was. At least parades move. It’s the ghost library. We could be here a long time.”
“What’s the ghost library?” Erica asks.
“People want a library. So, every Saturday they protest in High Park.” He sighs. “They’re supposed to stay in the park, but they always spill over into the street and block traffic.”
“Is this allowed?” I ask.
“Yes,” Erica says, very quickly. “All forms of protest are tolerated as long as they are peaceful. That’s in the preliminary edicts of the Transitional Council.“
I’ve struck a nerve. A lot of people think the Transitional Council is just holding on to power now. When Erica was invited to be on the Justice Council, she agonized for weeks before accepting, pouring over the edicts the transitional government had issued. She only accepted when she decided she could trust them to move toward democracy. Not everyone has reached the same conclusion.
“What’s a library?” I ask.
“It’s a place where people can borrow books. When I was young, they were everywhere, but, near the end of the technocaust, the old Protector governments closed down all the libraries to limit access to information. Now, we could set up biblio-tech units all over this city—they’d cost less to operate than a library. But that technology doesn’t bring people together, it keeps them apart. You just download your book and go. A library is more than books. You can hold meetings at a library. You can run programs for children. It creates a sense of community,” she sighs. “These people want information again, but they also want places where they can meet and talk. And they have every right, but it’s going to take time. So many things have to be fixed. Libraries may have to wait.”
After about forty-five minutes, we finally pass the ghost library. I was expecting some kind of angry protest, but it’s more like a party. Small groups listen to people reading from books, but there are jugglers too, even one with flaming torches. I see a girl in a bright velvet dress standing beside a booth that looks like a small stage, talking to an audience of children. Suddenly, a puppet pops up, squirts her in the face with water, and quickly disappears inside the booth. Even from inside the vehicle, I hear the children squeal with laughter. They make me smile. The girl puts her head down into the booth, apparently talking to the puppet. The children lean forward to see what happens next. I do too, but then we drive away.
On the crest of an embankment, I glimpse a tall man with long silver hair, dressed in odd, flowing clothes. Somehow he draws my attention. He’s looking around with satisfaction, as if all this belongs to him.
“It looks like a circus,” Erica says.
“It might as well be,” the driver replies. “It’s run by this radical who calls himself Prospero. He’s done a lot of good, even before the Uprising. His group takes homeless kids and teaches them how to support themselves by performing circus tricks in the streets. But the ghost library always messes up traffic.”
It looks so intriguing, “Can we stop and have a look?” I ask.
Erica shakes her head. “We’ve got to unpack. Anyway, we’re going to be here for months. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to see the ghost library.”
“You sure will,” the driver says. “The address you gave me is only a few blocks from here.”
Soon after, we stop on a side street. The park is close enough to see when I look back. “This is the house?” I ask Erica.
She laughs. “I wanted to surprise you. Let’s have a look.” We climb out. It’s one of the old houses, red brick, with three storeys topped by a sloped roof with black shingles. Two large white dormers set with little windows are flanked by tall brick chimneys on the outside walls. There’s a big wooden door in the middle sheltered by a curving porch roof. Big windows with white wooden trim look out from either side of that door. It’s not a grand house but it’s dignified. I never imagined living in such a place.
“How could anyone give this up for us?” I ask Erica.
“They didn’t, exactly, Blake. The owner, Rebecca Mendorfsky, is a judge. She’s gone to Vancouver Prefecture to do what I’ll be doing, helping to set up a Justice Council there. Her family went with her, so she offered us the use of the house. Let’s have a look. I’ve got the codes.”
The driver won’t accept payment. “I don’t want your money,” he tells Erica. “It’s not every day I get to drive someone who’s going to be on the Justice Council.” She finally makes him understand she has a travel stipend. I’m glad he’s been so respectful. I know Erica was braced for hostility.
We drag everything up the steps to the porch, then Erica keys in the codes. I feel a shiver of anticipation. It’s like opening a huge present.