Life In The Mazes of Rinith

"Keep up, loser!"

Maurice glared at his friend’s back as she scrambled up the cobblestone hill before them. At this pace she would beat him to the dumpster stack they’d agreed on as the target. She could not win again.

“No fair! You had a head start!” Maurice huffed up the stones, getting on his hands to combat the slick of the steep rock beneath them.

“You said no rules!”

“Go on, Maurice,” he heard his other friends behind him, gasping for breath, “beat her!” But how could he beat her? By the time he caught the turns, she was already halfway down the next alley. He would never get ahead on these narrow streets. But what if…

He looked away from his opponent and down to the road ahead of him, where the pavement was just transitioning to metal plating. His pounding feet passed wires, sewage grates, discarded food cans, and… there!

The metal gate that served as a barrier between the street and cavern below was coming up. Maurice caught glimpses of the motherboard of the latticed sewage pipes, coughing factories and minecart tracks that ran the city. This was his chance. The old repair fence had been broken for weeks now and today was the day to finally take advantage. He aimed for the small gap under the bent tension bar, got low, and slid.

“Maurice!” The voices of his friends faded into the city noises as he jumped off the main alley and onto the pipework below. The pipe clanged when his feet met it, and he slipped. A glimpse of the tunnels of factory buildings and exposed crashing gears below was all he needed to know to clutch onto the pipe for dear life. He stopped sliding.

Maurice took a breath and repositioned himself atop the lattice of pipes, his heart pounding in his ears. But this was worth it. This had better be worth it. He got his footing and clambered up the slant of the pipes toward his destination.

The vent was right where he’d thought. The pipes had led to the air circulation system, and from there it was easy to find his way in, cutting straight through the maze race his friends had decided on. He heard the thumping of feet and the heavy exhales and knew he was right on time.

He kicked out the vent he was next to and swung out, landing right next to the dumpsters on the sand line they’d laid out as a finish line. He heard a breathy “Wha–” and right as he turned around he was hit by enough force to knock them both over the too-short railing behind him.

His back hit fabric and the smell of sweat and steam rose around them as they both slid down the pile of dirty laundry. He heard grunting as his opponent struggled upright next to him, and an elbow hit his ribs. That would bruise. But he won.

He heard the clacking of work shoes on the metal floor move towards them, and the light across his eyelids dimmed.

“Alya. Maurice. Why am I not surprised?” He looked up to see an upside down silhouette of a stout, skirted lady backlit by the red streetlight behind her. Her hands were on her hips and she was tapping her foot, annoyed.

“Hey, Miss Morna.” His smile was lopsided as he squinted up at his old caretaker.

...

“So,” Morna started, disturbing the awkward silence, “how’s your dad?”

“Good, I guess.” Maurice looked down at his hands and picked at the blackened dried skin on his palms. Morna’s kitchen was small enough that the smells from the pot she was stirring quickly filled the space. Since Alya’s brother had picked her up, gruff as always, the only sounds had been the clinking of the metal spoon and the sliding of cabinets as Morna put together her stew.

Morna just grunted. Maurice looked up but she just continued to stir her soup. Classic Morna strategy. Making it even more awkward so that he would keep talking. It was working.

“Well, I mean, he’s still busy.” He looked back at his hands. “He’s always busy. ‘Specially now that they’re letting people off or whatever.” Morna hummed. He heard the spoon click twice and be set down, and he looked back up to see her leaning against the counter, looking at him knowingly.

“You doin’ alright, kid?”

“‘M not a kid.”

“Well, you’re certainly not an adult. Not yet at least. C’mon, tell me what’s happening.” She looked so concerned, so curious, like she wasn’t aware that their world was ripping itself apart and reshaping as they spoke.

“Fights are happening!” He wanted her to snap out of her motherly state and talk reality. To stop treating him like everyone else did, like a little kid who couldn’t do anything right and wasn’t capable enough to not just be hidden away, to fight. “People are rising up and no one’s talking about it and if they are it’s not when I’m around. Even you’re just sitting around here, making stew, teaching like history isn’t being made right outside. I don’t understand it. I want to fight, why won’t anyone let me?”

A pitying smile grew in her eyes as she looked on. She lowered the heat on the stove and sat down with him on the table. She looked at her pot.

“Y’know, stew can be the most important piece in a rebellion.”

“What?”

“People can’t fight without good food,” she took his oil-stained hands in her own callused ones, “and you can’t run if you waste it all fighting other people’s battles.”

“They’re not other people’s, though, they’re ours. This city. What’s the point of challenging people if no one’s there to fight. I want to be there to fight.”

“But there’s no point in fighting if no one’s left after to see the outcome. Look, Mauri, I know you want to fight. I love that you care, and you care so much. More than most other thirteen-year-olds would. But you have your whole life ahead of you, don’t give it up now.” She put her hands on his shoulders and held his gaze.

“War is dangerous. And it’s not a risk worth taking. Not in your shoes. Trust me Maurice. It’s not worth it.” He looked up at Morna and saw how worried she was. Scared, even. And he was scared too. “Do you understand, Maurice?” He nodded, not looking away from her face.

She dropped her head and closed her eyes; took a deep breath. She stood up, patting his shoulder as she walked back to her stove. She turned off the burner. Maurice looked back to his hands, eyes running over his picked skin.

“Your dad should be off work soon, Mauri. Let’s get your shoes. I’ll pack up some stew for you.” He hummed an “ok,” and got up.

...

Maurice glanced at the snoring dad-shaped lump of blankets upon the couch, before slowly opening the creaky metal door and sneaking out. His dad had collapsed the moment his bowl of stew was empty. Apparently he’d had a hard day in the mines today, something about his boss and the understaffed tunnels. I’ll tell you about it later, okay Mauri? Your old man needs some sleep now. Don’t stay up too late.

"Sorry, Dad," Maurice said under his breath, pulling up his jacket’s hood and hopping off their front porch onto the roofs of houses below, "might have to disappoint you on that one."

.

The warehouse that served as the venue must have been over max capacity when he got there. As Maurice shoved his way through walls of people he caught a glimpse of the stage, which was really just a bunch of crates nailed together. But under the firerock lighting, it was transformed into a blank red canvas ready to change the world. The room was abuzz with people antsy to jump, dance, scream. The excitement was contagious as he nudged his way closer to the stage.

Above the chatter he thought he heard someone call his name. When he turned around he saw Bunch, the curly-haired kid apprenticing at the waterworks, waving at him from some seats near the edge of the room. Maurice had once wondered why a smart kid like them was working down in the pipes; they didn’t seem to like it very much, but the story was so common he didn’t even need to ask. Bunch’s mom had had the Red Shivers throughout their childhood, and had passed away from it a few years back. Not wanting to get into the politics of the local gangs or go to the government for help, Bunch had taken the job so they could take care of themself and their sister on their own.

Which was part of the reason Maurice was surprised they were there.

"What are you doing here Bunches? Did Wendy finally decide she was too cool to be living with her older brother? Kick you out?" Bunch laughed as Maurice approached.

"Could say the same about you, man. Won’t Gord be mad you’re cheating on the band?"

"I’m not cheating on anyone, just stopping by a bit early to see the newcomers."

"And by newcomers you mean his rival band? The gang he’s been battling since he had any say in club politics? The one he challenged to a duel last week? That newcomer?"

"Oh calm down, I’m here for his show too."

"Your dad know you’re staying out late again?"

"Shove off. If you tell him I’ll pound you, ‘kay? Now I’m gonna get close to the stage, these seats are terrible. Seeya, Bunch." Maurice started off back into the crowd, smiling a bit when he heard Bunch mumble something about the volume behind him.

Volume, Maurice thought as he pushed between the columns of people twice his size. If you want the full experience, you can’t escape the volume, everyone knew that. The volume was half the message. If Maurice wanted to just listen to the melodies, he’d steal a radio. He’d sit back with Bunch and watch the performers from afar. But he wasn’t there for the melodies of the visuals. He was there for the music.