THE LORD OF THE RINGS
BOOK ONE:
JOURNEY OF THE RING
A Big Day for All of Us
"Gimme a cigarette."
Spider Jerusalem squats in an alcove, jammed between pipes as if trying to imitate his namesake. His hand shoots out, spindly fingers grasping at air. His thumb and middle finger snap twice.
Pale, antiseptic light pours down from the neat rows of long bulbs overhead. It washes over bare concrete, two young men in ratty black, and the seemingly endless web of utility conduits. The air tastes wet and slightly metallic. Somewhere down the service corridor, steam hisses from an unseen valve.
Dib stands and rummages through the interior of his coat. His clumsy hands fumble across hidden pockets, testing each for its contents. Glasses case, pocket calculator, an empty crisps bag, pens, a small journal. At last, he extracts a beaten, off-white cigarette packet. "Only two left," he clucks, squeezing the top of the box open. He pulls out one of the generic cigarettes and hands it to Spider.
"I'll buy the next pack," Spider says, jamming the cigarette between his lips. He grins, big overly-white teeth shining. A lighter appears in his hand, as if by sorcery, and spews a tiny, sputtering flame. It twists and dances in the subtle, damp breeze that flows down the tunnel. The tip of the cigarette chars and glows bright orange. Spider takes a pull. Moments later, thin, acrid smoke trickles from his wide nostrils. "Ah yeah," he hisses, "does a body good."
Dib tucks the last of the cigarettes behind one ear. He adjusts his glasses with his off hand. "You have any idea where Sokka is? We can't just wait around all day."
Spider laughs. The sound is dry and growling – the kind of bestial rumble that heralds the coming rasp of a lifelong smoker. "Hey now. Hey." He sucks deep on his cigarette, takes a moment to let the smoke swirl about his insides, and lets it waft out from between his clenched teeth. "I love to complain about him as much as anyone. You know me."
A sniff. Dib swipes at a long, black hair as it tickles across his nose. He nervously steps to the humming wall and leans. "Right."
"Sokka's a special case, man. You have to give him time. If you hurry him, you're liable to catch him the one half of the time he's not a goddamn genius. Throw him off," Spider flicks a tiny cloud of ash onto the floor, "and you're liable to get a prolonged period of stupendous jackassery."
"If you say so," Dib sighs. He stares forward, focusing on a barely-perceptible crack that runs along the far wall and disappears behind a cluster of fat green tubes. He should never have come out. Every wasted minute weighs heavier and heavier, building knotted tension in his back and shoulders. The smell of cigarette smoke grows too thick and enticing. Dib sweeps the remaining coffin nail down off his ear and extracts a paper matchbook from yet another deep pocket. Printed on it, gold letters on a faded blue background, is, Starry Deeps. For a moment, his breath catches and something below his stomach clenches.
"Besides," Spider says, "I wouldn't dare interrupt a man about Sokka's business." He chuckles.
Swa-bang!
Every muscle contracts; every joint springs painfully into motion. Dib jumps three or four feet straight up. The cigarette and matchbook tumble from his hands, juggle along his awkwardly snatching fingers, and clatter to the floor.
The sound of the opening hatch reverberates up and down the maintenance corridor. Deep steel echoes thunder from floor to ceiling, traveling off into the dim recesses of the tunnels. Furious footfalls resound in their wake.
"Guys! Whew – hey, guys," a voice calls. Loud, cheery, and eager.
Dib feels Spider rise beside him. The older boy's gaunt frame moves past him and further into the corridor. "Took you long enough."
Sokka dashes into view. His legs tangle beneath him as he skids to a stop, nearly pitching him off his feet. Only his windmilling arms keep him from crashing face-first into the concrete. He wobbles with all the grace of a drunken heron.
"Sorry – phew – sorry I'm late. Got, uh, caught up. Didn't see the time!" he announces. Sweat dapples his forehead and shines along his neck.
"Sure. Sure you got caught up." Spider stabs the glowing cherry of his cigarette in Sokka's direction. "In Yumi Ishiyama's underwear."
Sokka stiffens. A flush crawls over his cheeks. "It – it's not like that," he stammers. "Seriously."
"Oh?" Spider asks. "'Just friends,' then?" Spider gives Sokka an appraising look. The cigarette rises to his lips and its ember flashes hot amber. "The way I hear it, she desires you," he exhales. "Sexually."
Sokka lets a small, sheepish smile part his lips. "Well – I –" The look of embarrassment passes. Something sly and more composed takes its place. "What's with the interrogation?" he muses. His breathing slows and evens. "And besides – it's not the point. I thought you wanted help with some business before the party."
"Right," Dib coughs. "Shouldn't we, uh . . . ?"
"Get going?" Spider finishes. The knowing (all-too-knowing) smile never leaves his face. "I suppose that we should. Why not?" He starts down the tunnel with long and lazy strides.
Sokka exchanges a perplexed look with Dib, and then ambles after. Dib sighs, quickly gathers the cigarette and matches scattered on the floor, and makes to follow his friends.
"Hey – wait. Where's Aang?" Sokka calls ahead. "Didn't you tell him? Shouldn't we wait?"
Spider never turns. His gravelly voice slips back to Sokka and Dib on hollow, metallic echoes. "He's up top. Waiting for what's-his-face to show up. You know? That wizard who drops in on his uncle from time to time."
"Iroh?" Dib suggests.
"Really? Iroh's coming for the party?!" Sokka spins about to look at Dib, nearly tripping himself in the process. "I love that guy!"
"Yeah," Dib concedes. "He's pretty great."
"Remember when we were kids? And he'd brew us all tea n' tell us stories about Rapture and the Transcendents and the old wars?" Sokka beams. "Man! Guy's a badass. If even half of what ol' Jiraiya says about him is true . . ."
Two other passages suddenly branch from either side of the corridor. Each is guarded by a titanic, slowly spinning ventilation fan. Beyond, gloomy tunnels run off into dark infinity. Dim shafts of light cut through the murk at odd intervals. Dib can just barely hear the insistent chug of huge pistons and turbines buried in concrete.
Spider's pace slows. "Jiraiya's a tough old bastard, I'll give him that," he says. "All the same, he's more than a bit of a drunk. Horndog, too. Iroh's strange to be sure, but I wouldn't put it past Jiraiya to stretch the truth a bit – especially if it gets him another round or loosens some poor girl's bra strap."
"So you're saying you don't believe him?" Sokka asks. He sounds a bit disappointed.
Spider shrugs. Ash crumbles from his dwindling cigarette and tumbles through the air in a gray puff. "Deep Shire's a big place, but the world's bigger. There's a lot of weird stuff out there. And since I've never been out of the Shire . . ." he trails off thoughtfully. "Maybe it's all true. Maybe it isn't. Doesn't matter." He shoots a conspiratorial glance back at his comrades. "At least, it matters as much as whether ol' Sokka's slipping Yumi his love sausage."
An indignant sputter. "Hey!"
Ignoring the outburst, Spider continues, "All I know is that Jiraiya is throwing a party for the ages tonight, that Zolo needs me to run something down-levels for him, and that there's a bag of cactus buttons in it for us if we play our cards right."
Though Sokka hoots with excitement, Dib only feels a wave of cool foreboding. It sluices down his spine and weighs against the back of his guts. Oh no. Not this again. Nothing good will come of it. Dib keeps his mouth shut and plods along like a man being led to the gallows.
A wide steel door, spotted and discolored, appears to the left. Next to it, stenciled in black Western letters on the scrubbed cement, is:
SUBLEVEL 2 SECTION 12
GREEN CONCOURSE
SUBSIDIARY ACCESS 4
Spider takes hold of the heavy handle of the vault door. It takes a mighty tug of his skinny arms to pull back the lever, disengage the inner locks, and slide the door open. An access corridor yawns behind it, bathed in headache-inducing yellow light. Filtered air hisses from vents along the floor and ceiling. The three shuffle through the pressure door and into the long hallway. It shuts behind them with a surly CLUNK.
Already, Dib can hear it: A far-off, almost watery rush and hiss.
Another pressure door stands at the end of the hallway. Tiny red lights blink languidly around its edges. Sokka scoots forward and takes the wheel at the center of the door in his hands. "Allow me," he smirks.
"Shut up," Spider growls. Sweat still plasters his short hair from the previous door.
A spin of the wheel; the click-clack-clock of surrendering locks; the door opens outward to a roar of sound and light. An alleyway lit in a rainbow of neon colors yawns before the door, leading out into the concourse and the mad din of the bazaar. Spider leads them out and into the thick of it.
It all gives way. The clean, dry air of the tunnels becomes heavy, vaporous, and swirling with ten-thousand odors. Frying food; engine exhaust; hot water cooling in puddles on the concrete; rank body odor; smoldering tobacco and stale weed; expensive cologne; garbage rotting in tight and secret spaces. Men hawk a dozen-dozen wares from windows and beside carts. Four figures on puttering scooters tear past the alley, their faces hidden by ceramic helmets and visors. Countless neon bulbs in every color spit and flicker, painting the street in manic kaleidoscope patterns. Somewhere, a public address speaker squawks static and then declares the top of the hour.
Spider flicks away the remains of his cigarette. The butt sails through the air and disappears from view. Silhouetted against a haze of green and orange and eye-watering baby blue, he proceeds out of the alley and into the streets. Sokka and Dib follow closely at his heels.
The light and tumult of the bazaar swallows them up.
---
The moment they hit the street, they're noticed. Them. Those three. Shopkeepers move to their store entrances and linger there, watching. Lips purse. One or two feel the tiny insistent pinch of ulcers.
There they go: Three unspeakable hooligans off to start god knows what, only god knows where. Terrors of the concourse, watched from the corner of every eye, and spoken of in fast whispers.
Their ringleader struts boney-kneed in his threadbare suit and smirks like a predator at every open shop and stall. He of the mismatched spectacles – worn with an absurd, belligerent pride. One lens a bulbous red circle, the other a shimmering green rectangle, and each rimmed with shining copper. He stares out over those bizarre glasses with sunken, hungry eyes. The tentacle edges of tattoos ooze from beneath his coat sleeves.
Behind him comes the kid in torn denim and dirty blue, mussed dark hair falling down to the base of his neck. Typical skater punk. The sort of trash that tears up and down the bazaar long after the lights have dimmed, raising hell. He moves with big, gawky steps – like he's just come off a growth spurt and isn't quite used to his long, wiry limbs. Skin somewhere between potter's clay and dark copper. Eyes like swathes of noon sky. His face is smooth and handsome.
The last of them hunches, lopes, and keeps his hands in the pockets of the long black coat that covers his body like a shroud. Thick, black-rimmed glasses sit over tiny dark eyes and a pale, drawn face dotted with raw acne. He doesn't so much walk as dart from spot to spot, struggling to keep pace with his companions. Shorter and slighter than either of the others, he's definitely the runt of the group. The kind of kid that gets turned upside down for pocket change. His nervous, roving eyes are all that are needed to confirm that that very scenario has probably played out more than once. All the same, his smile is large and genuine. When he speaks, his friends turn in their paces and listen. They grin like hyenas and slow their strides, nodding in tune to his words.
There they go. Three boys – near men – in the prime of it all. Laughing, jogging, jostling each other's shoulders, stinking of youth and confidence, and secure in the knowledge of their own invincible destinies.
Punks.