The Underground

“What’s this?” I asked my grandmother, pointing to a bit of shining gold protruding from her apron pocket.

She glanced down, and I saw her eyes widen. She shoved the piece out of sight. “Nothing, Amelie, nothing.” She didn’t make eye contact and instead stayed focused on the scenery slowly passing us by as the wagon rattled back and forth.

“I don’t think it’s nothing…” I persisted and scooched in closer to her.

She looked directly at me, sternly in the eyes, “Keep your voice down child,” she admonished. There were eight other people in the little horse wagon, all headed to the hay field. My grandmother riffled around in the pouch at her feet and pulled out a heel of bread, handed it to me, “Eat something, you’re looking thin.”

I wished I hadn’t been so enthusiastic. My tone gave away my interest in the object. I took the bread, but leaned in close to her, “You can tell me, grandma.”

She sighed, leaned in herself, “It’s a heart shaped locket.”

“Locket? I don’t know what that is.”

“A necklace.”

I shook my head.

“Jewelry.”

I shook my head again, eating the bread.

“A personal item. It was my mother’s, your great-grandmother’s.”

I was burning with curiosity, I wanted to see it, I still didn’t understand. “But you know personal items aren’t allowed.”

At this, she scoffed, “Of course I know that, which is why I want you to stop asking questions and eat your bread.”

I did as I was told, lifted my head and studied the verdant trees and fields as we rattled along the dirt road. I didn’t know how she could have this item, but she must have it on her because there was nowhere to safely hide it in our communal cabin. But clearly it wasn’t safe where it was now either. If she was caught with it. I shook the thought from my head—she was all I had left.

“Grandma, do you want me to sew it into the lining of your dress tonight?” I asked, leaning back in. Her hands had begun to shake of late, her eyes were failing, she couldn’t do any detail work, especially by the light of the feeble fire.

She looked at me, adjusted her hat, and sighed, “Yes, that would be fine, but no more talk.”

I nodded, smiled, and congratulated myself on my cleverness. Not only was I helping her, but I’d get to see whatever a locket was.

The wagon turned down the lane and came to a stop by a field of tall grass. One by one, we disembarked and made our way under a large oak tree, left our food parcels in the shade, and were handed our scythes from the attendant. The group fanned out as we had done so many times before and all began to make decisive and swift swings, methodically cutting the grass down. We moved in a line, sweeping our way across the field, feeling the sun rising and getting hotter, and all looked forward to our mid-day break.

I glanced over at my grandmother, near as we could guess, she was in her sixth decade. I was only ten and eight. At this steady pace of cutting, I would tire by the end of the day, but grandmother already looked exhausted. I could see the perspiration on her face from a distance, her swings were uneven, her cuts imprecise. I watched her swings move over the same area multiple times to clear the grass. She began to lag behind. Gradually over the last year, I’d noticed small signs of her getting more and more tired—aching or moving slowly at the end of the day—but today it was showing in her work. My heart began to race. I wanted to slow down myself to make her slow pace look less obvious. But then we would just both be behind.

I looked around imploringly at the group. Hoping to make eye contact, hoping to somehow communicate my plea for us all to slow down to let her catch up, to give her a break. But no one looked up. I couldn’t ask, talking was forbidden. And besides, if we slowed down, we wouldn’t make our quota for the day, and then we would be denied dinner rations.

Panic. I knew what was coming and there was nothing I could do about it. I could try to help her and share her fate or I could turn away and continue to cut with the rest of the group. I heard the attendant yell at her, the Baphomet, his wings out stretched, his goat’s head high, yelled. She couldn’t move any faster, even with the yelling. My grandmother didn’t make a sound. I just kept cutting.

#

“She’s asleep,” I told Sera as I sat down in the wicker chair before the cooking fire place. I had cleaned my grandmother’s wounds, given her tea and my dinner rations. She had fallen asleep, finally. The rest of the house was quiet, the other housemates winding down for the night in the bunkrooms.

Sera was sewing in the dim light, fixing her husband’s trousers. She was five months pregnant. I would be like her to, married with child, if my grandmother hadn’t gotten me placed on field work. I wasn’t sure why, but it was better; I liked being unmarried.

I had my grandmother’s dress with the locket - shining, gold, beautiful- I was going to sew it into the lining for her.

“I have some herbs she can take in the morning, it will help with the pain,” Sera said without looking up from her work.

“Thanks, I’ll make sure she takes them,” I settled in and began my task. We sat in silence for a time. I was lost in thought, lost in my own shame that I hadn’t done anything today to help. But neither had any of the other men and women harvesting. But what could we do anyway?

I cleared my throat. Waffled. I wanted to speak candidly with Sera; she was my closest friend. We’d grown up together in this cabin. But I had a dangerous subject to broach. She could sense my unease, that I was being strange.

“Is this about your grandmother?” She asked.

“Not quiet, but yes… I…” I cleared my throat, put my work down into my lap and leaned forward, “Peter, over at the quarry, he told me about something the other day while in the ration line…” Sera shot a glance at me, but I continued anyway, “I mean, he said this isn’t how…the way we live…it isn’t how it always was here…” I was frustrated that I couldn’t get the words out right.

“Amelie, stop, this is silly.”

“Have you heard this already?” My voice rose with excitement, and I immediately checked myself, paused and looked around to make sure I hadn’t disturbed the house.

“No, not really,” she looked at me in the same way my grandmother had that morning, “But some rumors, yes. We shouldn’t speak of it. Besides, do you even trust Peter?”

“Well… I don’t know…but,” I began to get excited, speaking rapidly, “He says that his cousin’s friend has proof, so he knows…”

“Uh huh…” she sounded annoyed and dismissive, but I couldn’t be stopped.

“He says that the Baphomets aren’t Gods. He says they are aliens. He says it wasn’t always like this on our planet. He says we had rich lives, freedom, but then they came. Peter says we are slaves! There was a great war, many died. They need the resources on our planet. So they use us…Slaves to an alien race…that’s what he said…”

“Amelie! Stop. Please. This is madness. These are fantasy stories told by boys who know no better.”

I sat back in my chair, let out an exasperated breath. Sera leaned forward and put her hand on my knee, she was trying to comfort me, but she couldn’t.

“Just think about this, for a minute,” She spoke slowly and calmly, as if I was a child that needed soothing and not her peer, “Have you ever seen any sign of a great war? How would we even fight against the Baphomets—they have their divine powers, levitation, the ability to control fire, the strength of the Gods. We have none of these things. It’s as we were taught, we humans live to serve the Gods, and for our work and toil in this life, we will be rewarded in the next.”

I thought of my grandmother, asleep, hurt, exhausted. Tomorrow, she could die in the field. What if Sera was wrong.

“Peter says we had the ability to fight, back then, when the Baphomets arrived. We had weapons nearly as strong as theirs…but…I don’t know what happened. I…” I could hear how foolish I sounded. “I’ve never seen signs of any great war, you’re right, but I have seen this,” I pulled the locket out and brought it in close to Sera. It shined gold in the fire light.

“What is that?” She asked, her voice full of curiosity and awe.

“My grandmother called it a locket, she said it belonged to her mother,” I was flushing red with guilt. I knew I shouldn’t be showing off my grandmother’s object.

“What does it do?” Sera asked, “May I touch it?”

“Please,” I held it closer in the palm of my hand, “I don’t think it does anything, I think you wear it.”

“And humans made this?”

“I think so.”

“But the Baphomets wouldn’t allow…”

“I know.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“Peter said if you want to know more, you put a candle in your window at night and wait.”

“Oh, no, Amelie,” Sera pleaded.

I had to know more, maybe I could protect her; my grandmother wouldn’t die like this.

#

I put a candle in my window, and I waited. On the fourth night they came.

It was pure confusion. I was gagged, a bag put over my head, dragged, carried, everything was muffled. By the time the bag was taken off, my body was hot with adrenaline; time had lost meaning. Had I been drugged?

It was dark, I blinked for focus. There were people, how many, I couldn’t tell. We were certainly underground, I could hear the sound of dripping water. I was leaning up against rock. Cold, wet rock soaking through my night clothes. I struggled for stability.

“Where…” I started.

“Don’t bother with questions, the process, the microchip will answer everything, upload the knowledge directly to your brain,” a voice in the darkness spoke.

“What? You’re talking nonsense. I…”

“What did I just say!” A man stepped forward, dressed in a black one-piece with a gold symbol on his breast. His face covered in a shaggy beard, a long scar, but most strikingly, a shiny metal plate covered the right side of his face. His right eye was gone—it was just a red light. It looked like it had been sewn to his skin. I screamed. “This is what you asked for, isn’t it?” He slammed his hand on the stone behind me.

“Don’t torture the girl,” another voice, a woman dressed the same with the same strange glowing eye stepped forward. “Put her in the chair,” she commanded.

I couldn’t resist, my body didn’t work. I was certainly drugged.

“Where’s my grandmother?” I cried, “I called you to help her!”

I heard muffled laughter.

“One person’s fate is not our objective…” I felt hands holding me, then my body went numb. A tray was brought next to me, lights turned on, then I saw it, my own metal plate. Hooks and prongs. Needles. A knife.

“Are we sure we want this one?” Someone asked.

“The implant will toughen her up,” the woman responded.

“Wait,” I could only choke out, “I’m not ready…”

“I don’t care,” the man whispered back.

END