Endworlds - Nicholas Read [21]
Crawling up the old stone stairway brought him to a paved walkway. A long line of buildings of diverse age and architecture stretched off left and right, fronting the river. There was no sign of life. Why would there be, he thought to himself? What fool would be out in weather like this?
The banners on buildings and neon letters in windows meant nothing to him; they were shapes his mind could not decipher. He found shelter beneath an awning and looked down at himself. A black jacket hung in reptilian folds around his slender chest. The matching pants, he noticed, had fallen to his ankles.
Pulling them up, he was unable to secure them in place with the belt. There were not enough notches to accommodate his thin waist. Frustrated, he ended up tying the belt in a knot to keep his pants from falling down.
Maybe there was something in his clothing that would help remind him of his identity, he thought suddenly. He began searching his person. But though they might once have contained useful material the waterlogged pockets were now empty. Whatever they had held had been lost to his struggle with the river. All that remained was something small and smooth in his right pocket that was too heavy to be easily swept away.
Pulling it out, he studied it intently. The amulet of metal wheels within wheels glinted in the dark orange of cloud-reflected light, its short chain sliding from his pocket as he held it aloft. The markings around its rim made no more sense or evoked no more memory than the street signs of the rain-drenched city gave direction. But it was in his pocket, so it must be worth keeping. He shoved it back into the crease and returned his attention to the river.
Did it never stop raining in this place, wherever it was? Was it raining harder upstream or down? Perhaps he could hike out of it.
Walking got his muscles working and warmed him slightly. Trying to keep under cover as much as possible he started upriver, pieces of debris sliding downstream in the opposite direction. Though he encountered various objects on their way to a distant and unseen sea he was unable to identify any of them. His ignorance, his lack of recognition, was total.
He passed more buildings, more signs. Why couldn’t he interpret their meaning? Was he unable to read? At his age, he ought to be able to do that. And what age, he inquired of himself, might that be?
Pausing, he gazed into a shopfront window and studied his face intently and with satisfaction, though he wondered if his baldness indicated an illness. Staring back was a very wet boy clad in drooping, drenched, unaccountably oversized clothes.
I’m about fourteen, he told himself. Maybe fifteen. So at least that was settled. But who am I?
No doubt as time passed and he recovered his senses, memories would return. One thing that did return abruptly and with a vengeance was a gnawing hunger. Surviving in the river, swimming to shore, and hauling himself out had burned his energy reserves. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of . . . of . . . Or a bite of . . .
He shook his head, sending droplets flying. He couldn’t even remember the names of food.
He followed the walkway that paralleled the river because it was the only path he had. Beyond beckoned buildings clustered tightly together. Lights shone from within only a very few. It was late and people were absent from the office buildings or they were home sleeping. Sleep—he recognized that term too. It was something else he needed, but not as much as he needed food and his identity.
He acquired the first by breaking into a small riverfront stall. Mounted on wheels, the portable booth was too modest to have an alarm. As he tore open small packages of processed food and devoured their contents hungrily he tried, and failed, to interpret the names on the labels. The best he could do was distinguish them according to colors. There was white food, and green food, and best of all, brown food. The bottles that provided cool