The smells of dust and burning wood fill her nostrils. She chokes as a gust of wind spreads sand past her. It is disorienting to experience the humidity the moist forest offered only moments ago disappear into this dry wasteland. The ground below is more sand than soil and slips beneath her feet, which only adds to her weariness. At least most of the sun has fallen behind the tall cliffs.
The wall doesn’t have the look of machine-construction. Mix-matched rocks in different shades of gray, tan, and brown are held together with what looks like mud. The door is made of unstained wood and has a rough, natural texture to it. There is no handle.
She’s unsure whether it would be appropriate to just push the door open or knock first but eventually opts to give a courteous knock. She holds up her fist and taps lightly a few times, hardly creating a sound through the thick wood. That does not stop her from being heard. The door swings open.
A small man with a curved back grips the frame of the door with stubby fingers blackened in grime. His eyes are sunken into his leathery face and do not seem to follow one another properly. He has no teeth which causes his grimace to disappear into his face. What’s left of his paper-white hair grazes the top of his shoulders and wisps in the wind.
After the brief look over, Margo realizes he is glaring at her. “Come in, come in,” he fusses.
Suddenly, she feels a bit uneasy and reconsiders. She cannot be sure that if she goes in there she won’t come out looking like him — if she is to come out at all.
He grows impatient with her hesitation and reaches out for her hand, giving it a tug.
He freezes, staring down at her, eyebrows tightening. Margo doesn’t know what he sees, but grows even more uncomfortable with his boorish staring.
Suddenly, his eyes widen in realization, slightly popping a vein out of his temple. His good eye jumps from Margo’s face to whatever it is he is gawking at.
“Could it be?” he whispers to himself. “Already…?”
Margo tries to hold it together, but is unable to control her features.
Instead of pulling her into the city, he quickly steps out with her. A few clumsy tugs on his poncho, and he shoves the heap into Margo’s arms.
“Put this on,” he says urgently. He glances around nervously.
It smells like stale dirt and body odor, but Margo is too frightened to do anything but obey — and pray she doesn’t catch anything. She breathes through her mouth.
“Follow me.” He is whispering again. “Quickly. Keep your eyes down.”
He takes her by the arm again but only long enough to pull her through the open door. Once they are in the village, he lets her go and scurries off into the streets.
His request to keep her eyes down proves difficult. There is much to see. Now that the ice has vanished, the streets are full of peculiar people. Most stay busy with their tasks or hustle on their way to where ever it is they are going. Some shop from the little kiosks set up along the streets, chatting about. Others pop in and out of buildings. On occasion, Margo receives an unwelcoming, sneering expression.
Something is very wrong here.
There are even fewer plants inside the walls, not even the shrubs that grow on the other side. The sandy roads are packed down harder than outside the gate, and every time the wind blows, a cloud of dust swirls through the air. Margo is reminded of an old western movie. She almost expects to see a bar fight in one of the buildings or a lone tumbleweed flipping down the road.
The graying buildings stand no more than six feet apart. A short set of steps lead to each door, and a small sign hangs outward from above every doorway with a name carved on it and a number hung beneath. She passes ‘Herbs and Plants, Number 23’ and ‘Fruit, Number 27’ before nearly losing sight of the little man in the crowds. She quickens her stride.
The people here are wrong, Margo notices as a couple duck out of a shop labeled ‘Eyewear, Number 21.’ That’s when she realizes what is bothering her: their attire. They are all dressed in different styles of clothing. Some are from a different era. Those wear anything from tattered bell-bottoms to long ruffled dresses that could have easily been from the early twentieth, maybe even nineteenth, century. The others, though fewer in numbers, are dressed more modern — jeans, short trendy dresses, business suits, or graphic tees.
The crooked man reaches down to give Margo’s hand a yank. Apparently, she still isn’t going fast enough. He takes a sharp left around the street corner weaving through the crowd.
They stop abruptly in front of the third house on the left. ‘Jamyria Welcome Center, Number 12’ reads the sign. The building is small. There’s nothing that makes it any more special than the other graying, dilapidated buildings she’s seen.
But she can’t study it for long. He steps up behind her and gives her a push toward Number 12.
“Hurry,” he fusses.
Margo climbs the rickety stairs and opens the door. He shoves her into the dark room, and the door slams shut behind her. There is hardly room inside. Bookshelves line all four walls containing stacks of papers along with other odds and ends—a clock, a telescope, a few framed drawings, a skull. The room is lit mostly by the high windows that peek over the tops of shelves and a few lit candlesticks.
In the room’s center sits a woman at a small desk, smiling wide. Compared to the townspeople of this dirty place, she is clean-cut. A sleek, chocolate ponytail coils around her shoulder. On her perfectly curved nose rests a pair of trendy red glasses. Even sitting down, it is obvious that this woman is tall and slender. Her presence is misplaced in this town.
“Welcome to Jamyria,” she says, smile still in place. She rises to greet Margo, extending a soft, well-manicured hand, which Margo shakes reluctantly, embarrassed by the roughness of her own against this lady’s delicate palm. But the woman doesn’t seem to notice — at least, she does not say. In fact, her warm spirit is welcoming.
“Jamyria?” Margo asks a beat too late.
“Oh, sweetie, I know it’s difficult to understand…or to take it all in at first, but you’ll soon know everything.” Her face is strained as she speaks, almost sympathetic. “We’ll help you get settled in.”
“Miss Saunders.” The gruff voice comes from behind Margo. She hadn’t realized the hunched-back man was still there. He shuffles his way over to the lady to whisper something in her lowered ear. Her warm smile shifts to something harsher. They both glance up at Margo at the same time.
“Impossible.” It is nothing more than a whisper, but the intensity of the single word is not fitting for such a sweet face. Margo wishes to look away from the woman ferocious glare. And then, her expression relaxes and her voice calms. “Well, that is an interesting theory, Dawson, but we will have to investigate this further.”
She looks down upon Margo sternly. The man is still glaring, too, which makes Margo feel very uncomfortable once again. The stench from the poncho suddenly returns causing her to gulp back bile.
“Dawson,” the lady continues, softening up her face a bit. “I shouldn’t have used the word ‘impossible.’ It’s just…unheard of. Thank you for bringing her to me.”
And with that, the little man nods and scoots his way out the door.
“Tell me,” says the woman stepping closer, arms folded across her chest. “What happened to you arms?”
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