15.

HENRAEK

 

“That’s where they extract them,” Dyvik says, pointing to the metal dome behind the fencing. “Then there’s some kind of processing in those domes before they’re able to come out into the world. Otherwise they would just evaporate when they touch air. I don’t fully understand how Ødven’s people do it, but that’s what our people inside have found.”

I’m still having a hard time comprehending what Dyvik is telling me, which is saying something for a man who used to make a living by stealing and selling memories.

“Is Gaagnir Nilsson a common name here?” I say.

Dyvik looks puzzled. “Not at all.”

Lyxzä speaks up. “He was a farmer who lived just outside town. If you took the main road a mile or so south, you’d find his place. He raised sheep.”

“I saw a man with that name in Vårgmannskjør, two days ago.”

Lyxzä shakes her head. “Gaagnir died ten years ago.”

“But Ødven called out that name and spoke to someone.”

Dyvik nods. “You saw his ände.”

“Ände?”

“That’s what we call them,” Dyvik says. “It’s more like a ghost or spirit than a soul. We believe in a world beyond this one, but soul implies a benevolent god, which we don’t do up here.

“Anyway,” he continues, “two years after they extracted Gaagnir’s ände, he tied a cinderblock to his waist and walked into the sea. He couldn’t deal with the separation anymore.”

“It can drag you down if you don’t fight against the feeling,” Lyxzä says. “It’s not uncommon to find bodies floating in the harbor.”

I shudder at imagining how cold that water must be.

“Some people can’t handle the feeling of separation,” Lyxzä continues, “like a piece of you that is always missing. When your ände leaves, it takes part of you with it. It’s like the volume is turned down. Things aren’t quite as bright, not quite as sharp. Sometimes it’s more, sometimes less, depending on how spirited the person is.”

I wonder if that was supposed to be a joke or if it’s just something lost in translation.

“Your ände is still part of you. It can feel things, physically and mentally. It just doesn’t have your – what do you call it, volition? Some people even say they can feel what the ände is feeling, like a cord that’s not completely cut, and they can’t tell when they’re feeling something themselves or when the ände is feeling it. After a while, it can drive you insane.”

I hear clicking behind me, and when I turn around I see Cobb creeping toward Lyxzä’s ände, his hand out as if he wants to touch it but is scared. I snap my fingers at him and he pulls back like he’s been bitten.

“Watch your brother,” I say to Donael, who looks annoyed that I’m keeping him from hearing more. He’s too close already, and I couldn’t handle losing him again.

“Let me get this straight,” I say to Dyvik, trying to understand why this is so urgent for them. “On the winter solstice of their thirty-fifth year, every citizen of Brusandhåv is required by Ragjarøn to commit their soul–”

“Their ände.”

“They’re required to commit their ände to the party, who extracts them and then… conditions them… in a labor farm. And then those ändes are shipped out to do all of the menial work in Vårgmannskjør? Am I following you correctly?”

“And that’s just a side benefit. When the ände is harvested, energy is released. That dome collects the energy, which is then used to power the capital for a good period of time. Then the next wave of people commit and the grid gets more power and the businesses get more workers, and so on and so on. In the end they get our ändes and our energy,” Dyvik says.

The way he describes it, the process sounds not dissimilar to the stripping used by the Tathadann, except it doesn’t kill them and it produces energy.

“That sounds awful,” I say to them. “But without being rude, you all still have it much better than we did in Eitan. You have running water. There are no bodies in the streets.” I gesture up at the sky. “You can see the sun. Do you know how long I went without seeing the sun? Years and years.”

“Yes, we have those things. We’re lucky to have them.” Lyxzä takes a step closer to me. “But at what cost?”

Something occurs to me. “If people keep committing, won’t all the jobs eventually be taken? And then they can stop committing?”

“They send the older ändes to other countries and get resources in return,” Dyvik says.

“Exploiting us in this life is bad enough,” Lyxzä says. “But according to our belief, without our ände we are doomed to wander the Great Beyond as only half of ourselves. We spend eternity wanting while our ände spends it working.”

“Lyxzä committed two years ago,” Dyvik says. “She understands that wanting.”

“And you haven’t?” I ask Dyvik.

“He turned thirty-five two months ago. Magnus, a week later,” Lyxzä says. “Many of Nyväg will be thirty-five this year, and the solstice is not far away. It is very hard to fight without your ände.”

Which is why they are so determined to do this now.

“It’s not just one camp, either.” Dyvik nods to the one beyond the graveyard. “That’s the one for this region. Ours was the first they built, so it’s the largest. But there are more than a dozen around the country. Many are outside Vårgmannskjør, where there is the greatest demand, but they reach from here out past Skaö, deep in the Jötun Mountains.”

“They give you no choice in whether to do it or not?” I say it a little more forcefully than I’d meant. “They just strip your souls – your ändes, whatever –without your permission and leave you feeling muted for eternity. Just for electricity. That’s horrible.”

Dyvik comes closer, puts his hand on my shoulder. “And that is why we need your help to stop it.”

“And your group, Nyväg, you’re trying to, what, destroy the machines to stop them from committing any more?”

“Hey,” Donael says, butting in. “Wasn’t that guy in Vargman-whatever Nyväg? The one they, um…”

“Yes, Donael.” I put a little steel in my voice, trying to keep him out of this conversation. A chill runs up my spine, remembering the sound of the man’s throat opening. “The one who was murdered.”

“They do that to anyone caught dissenting,” Lyxzä says. “No matter which of the provinces they’re captured in, they’re brought to Vårgmannskjør and sacrificed before Evivårgen.”

“But we continue fighting. That is the kind of dedication we have in Nyväg,” Dyvik says. “We know that you’ve been sent out here by Ødven to monitor us.”

“His words were ‘restore order.’”

Lyxzä breathes out a laugh. “And how many people does he expect you to kill in order to do that?”

“I asked the same thing.”

“I told you they were horrible.” Donael shakes his head, an expression on his face that is equally familiar and terrifying. The expression of bone-deep disgust. I remember it well, on Walleus’s face, and in the mirror, years ago.

“That’s why I’m telling you to stay away from it,” I say to Donael. I mean for it to come out strong and authoritative, but there’s a waver in my voice I can’t keep out. Like it can sense Donael’s interest and is fighting to get through, or that my own voice senses my hypocrisy and is betraying me.

“We’re asking for your help.” Dyvik clears his throat, then continues. “Ragjarøn has ruled over us for too long,” he says. “The Äsyrs simply take whatever they want and expect everyone in Brusandhåv to accept it as what’s best for us. This country was formed by stealing native lands, combining communities with no relation to one another, without any input from our people. Who are they to decide what we need, what path we should take? We have no voice, no path of recourse when we’ve been wronged, no arena to air our grievances. There’s no congress, no courts, no parliament, no group of common people brought on as advisors. Just those two tyrants and their oändlig insikt, their supposed ability to somehow see inside the hearts of the people. We want our land back, to be our own rulers again, to answer only to ourselves and our people.”

I understand what it’s like to ache for self-rule, to define yourself for yourself and be beholden to no one, especially as tyrannical as the ruling parties could be. If I’m being honest with myself though – I’m just tired. I lost my wife. I lost my son for too many years. I lost my best friend – who was very nearly my only friend. I’ve lost my girlfriend. I don’t want to lose any more.

But at the same time, that familiar tingling spreads through my body, starting in the center of my chest and radiating out like a star gone supernova. The thrill of possibility, of free breath, of an unrestrained tongue and an unshackled mind. Of a better future for my boys, and all the other young ones like them.

“OK,” I say finally. “I’ll do what I can to help. But I can’t do anything that will endanger the boys. I won’t.”

They both smile, relief settling over their faces as quickly as the optimism bubbles. We all shake hands, then Dyvik brushes it away and pulls me in for a hug.

As quickly as those revolutionary feelings returned, they dissipate even faster when I look over Dyvik’s shoulder and see the look on Donael’s face. I remember feeling that too, when I’d first heard about the villages taking up arms against the Tathadann, the feeling that I was about to become part of something bigger than myself.

And right now he’s feeling that same thing, only it’s for some villagers he doesn’t know, next to his hypocrite father.

Would you have done this, Walleus? Or would you have kept him away?