Will was flabbergasted, but Cal seemed to be ignoring the incident altogether. Will watched the pathetic man until he left the room and then, deciding there was nothing he could do, turned his attention to the bowl of fresh fruit — there were bananas, pears, and a couple of figs in addition to the apples and oranges. He helped himself, grateful for something familiar and recognizable after the first two courses.
At that moment the front door slammed with such a crash that the casement windows shook. Will and Cal listened as Mr. Jerome's footsteps retreated down the front path. It was Will who broke the silence.
"Doesn't like me much, does he?"
Cal shook his head as he peeled an orange.
"Why—" Will stopped short as the servant returned and stood submissively behind Cal 's chair.
"You can go," Cal ordered rudely, not even bothering to look at the man, who slipped quietly out of the room.
"Who was that?" Will inquired.
"Oh, that was just Watkins."
Will didn't speak for a moment, then asked, "What did you say his name was?"
"Watkins… Terry Watkins."
Will repeated the name to himself several times. "I'm sure I know that from somewhere." Although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, the name triggered a sense of foreboding in him.
Cal continued eating, enjoying Will's confusion, and then Will remembered with a start. "They went missing, the whole family!"
"Yes, they certainly did."
Taken aback, Will quickly looked across at Cal. "They were snatched!"
"They had to be, they were a problem. Watkins stumbled onto an air channel, and we couldn't have him telling anybody."
"But that can't be Mr. Watkins — he was a big man. I've seen him… his sons went to my school," Will said. "No, that can't be the same person."
"He and his family were put to work," Cal said coldly.
"But…" Will stuttered as he juggled the mental image of Mr. Watkins as he used to appear with how he looked now. "…he looks a hundred years old. What happened to him?" Will couldn't help but think of his own predicament, and of Chester 's. So was that to be their fate? Forced into slavery for these people?
"Just as I said, they were all put to work," Cal repeated, lifting a pear to smell its skin. Noticing there was a smear of Mr. Watkins blood on it, he polished it on his shirt before taking a bite.
Will was regarding his brother now with renewed scrutiny, trying to figure him out. The warmth he'd been beginning to feel toward him had all but evaporated. There was a vindictiveness, a hostility even, evident within the younger boy that Will didn't understand or very much care for. One moment he was saying he wanted to escape from the Colony, and the next he was acting as if he was completely at home here.
Will's train of thought was broken as Cal glanced over at his father's empty chair and sighed. "This is very hard on Father, but you have to give him time. I suppose you bring back too many memories."
"About what, exactly?" Will shot back, not feeling an ounce of sympathy for the surly old man. That was where the notion of his newfound family fell apart — if he never saw Mr. Jerome again, it would be too soon.
"About Mother, of course. Uncle Tam says she always was a bit of a rebel." Cal sighed again, then fell silent.
"But… did something bad happen?"
"We had a brother. He was only a baby. He died from a fever. After that, she ran away." A wistful look came into Cal 's eyes.
"A brother," Will echoed.
Cal stared at him, any hint of his usual grin absent from his face. "She was trying to get both of us out when the Styx caught up."
"So she escaped?"
"Yes, but only just, and that's why I'm still here." Cal took another mouthful of pear and was still chewing when he spoke again. "Uncle Tam says she's the only one he knows who got out and stayed out."
"She's still alive?"
Cal nodded. "As far as we know. But she broke the laws, and if your break the law the Styx never let go, even if you make it Topsoil. It doesn't end there. One day, they will catch up with you, and then they will punish you."
"Punish? How?"
"In Mother's case, execution," he said succinctly. "That's why you have to tread very carefully."
Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll. Cal got to his feet and glanced through the window. "Seven bells. We should go."
Once they were outside, Cal forged ahead, and Will found it difficult to keep up, his new pants chafing against his thighs with every stride. It was as though they'd stepped into a river of people. The streets heaved with them, all dashing frantically in different directions as if they were late for something. It looked and sounded like a confused flock of leathery birds taking flight. Will followed Cal 's lead, and after several turns they joined the end of a line outside a plain-looking building that resembled a warehouse. In front of each of the studded wooden doors at the entrance a pair of Styx stood in their characteristic poses, arched over like vindictive principals about to strike. Will bowed his head, trying to blend in with the crowd and avoid the jet-black pupils of the Styx, which he knew would be upon him.
Inside, the hall was deceptively big — around half the size of a football field. Large flagstones, shiny with dark patches of damp, formed the floor. The walls were roughly plastered and whitewashed. Looking around, he could see elevated platforms in the four corners of the hall, crude wooden pulpits, each with a Styx in place, hawkishly scrutinizing the gathering.
Halfway down the left and right walls were two huge oil paintings. Because of the sheer mass of people in the way, Will didn't have a clear view of the painting on the right, so he turned to examine the one nearer to him. In the foreground was a man dressed in a black coat and a dark green vest, sporting a top hat above his somewhat lugubrious and mutton-chopped face. He was studying a large sheet of paper, which might have been a plan, spread open in his hands. And he appeared to be standing in the midst of some kind of earthworks. Huddled at his sides were many other men with pickaxes and shovels, all of them looking at him with rapt admiration. For no particular reason, it brought to Will's mind pictures he'd seen of Jesus and his disciples.
"Who's that?" Will asked Cal, motioning toward the painting as people bustled past them.
"Sir Gabriel Martineau, of course. It's called the Breaking of the Ground."
With the ever-increasing crowds of people milling around in the hall, Will had to jig his head from side to side to make out more of the painting. Other than the main figure, who Will now knew was Martineau himself, the ghostly faces of the workmen fascinated him. Silvery rays of what could have been moonlight radiated from above and fell on their faces, which glowed with a soft, saintly luminosity. And adding to this effect, many of them appeared to have an even brighter light directly above their heads, as if they had halos.
"No," Will murmured to himself, realizing with a start that they weren't halos at all, but that it was their white hair.
"Those others?" he said to Cal. "Who are they?"
Cal was about to reply when a portly Colonist barged rudely into him, spinning him almost completely around. The man continued determinedly on his way without so much as an apology, but Cal didn't seem to be the slightest bit annoyed by the man's conduct. Will was still waiting for an answer as Cal wheeled back to face him again. He spoke as if he were addressing someone who was irretrievably stupid.
"They're our ancestors, Will," he said with a sigh.
"Oh."
Despite the fact that Will was burning with curiosity about the picture, it was hopeless — his view was now almost completely blocked by the massing crowd. Instead, he turned to the front of the hall, where there were ten or so carved wooden pews, packed with closely seated Colonists. Going up on tiptoes to try to see what was beyond them, he caught sight of a massive iron crucifix fixed to the wall — it seemed to be made from two sections of railway track, bolted together with huge round-headed rivets.