Taken (Erin Bowman)

uneven ground. I put an arm around Emma and let my thoughts drift back to the odd light in Maude’s bedroom. I can’t help but think she knows there’s more beyond the Wall. I try to tell myself that it is not possible. If she knows, if she’s known all along . . . I don’t want to think about what that means.
    The car slows and we stop before a stretch of wall. Not our Wall but a second one. Emma and I were trapped all along, both in Claysoot and even when we were beyond it. In the front seat, Marco takes the communication device and again talks into it.
    What happens next doesn’t seem possible. A small section of the wall twitches, and then it’s moving, parting like a cloud splitting in two. Not a moment later, a vacant expanse lies before us, a clear passageway right in the center of the structure.
    Emma sits upright. “Did you see that?”
    I nod, dumbfounded.
    “Do you think we could do that? Back in Claysoot? Do you think there’s a section of our Wall that opens and we just never found it?”
    But I don’t get a chance to answer her because we are hurtling forward again, the speed so great I grow nauseous.
    We emerge onto a frozen black river, so straight and precise that I wonder if it is a river at all. It cuts through the earth. The sky hangs gray. The grass grows dry. There is a whole lot of nothing out here, just land that goes on and on. I wonder how much of it exists, how small Claysoot is in comparison.
    At one point, we pass several rickety homes and faltering structures. A town, like Claysoot. The people are holding a funeral, obvious from the downturned eyes and a mound of fresh earth. Farther outside the community I see two young boys carrying buckets of water, their forearms strained. I imagine they will have blisters by the time they get home. That, or they make the trip so often their palms already boast proud calluses.
    We drive for a long while without seeing anyone else.
    Finally, a forest of tiny tree trunks appears on the horizon, stretching toward the clouds. Above them is a glint of light, shaped like an arched rainbow or overturned bowl. It catches the sunbeams and shoots them into the car. As we get closer, I realize that the shapes within are not trees but buildings—hundreds of buildings of varying heights, all stretching up toward the brilliant arch.
    Marco drives the car toward the gleaming barrier at a stunning speed. Again he says something into the handheld device, and again, an entrance reveals itself.
    Welcome to Taem , a sign above us reads, the first domed city.
    Taem is like nothing I have ever seen. I keep thinking that I must be dreaming, that I will wake up in my Claysoot bed to discover that everything from when I first entered Maude’s house to now has been nothing more than the workings of my slumbering imagination. I blink rapidly. I pinch the flesh on my forearm.
    I don’t wake up.
    The sheer size of Taem makes it hard to breathe. Buildings tower at heights so precarious I am certain they will topple in on us. I realize that the frozen river we travel on is actually a road, dark and solid, so opposite our dirt variety. As we travel through the city, the road splits and forks and multiplies, twisting in intricate patterns as cars fly past. There is a long series of silver buckets that hang from cables and whoosh by overhead, their sides scrawled with letters that read trolley . I repeat the odd term in my head, wondering how it’s pronounced. Emma and I don’t exchange a single word; we are too busy gawking.
    Things here are made of materials I have never seen. Lights illuminate the city, their brightness trumping every candle and torch in Claysoot combined. Some cast their brilliance along the road we travel. Others fill the sides of buildings, flashing words and symbols in a frantic manner. And the people: There are people everywhere. Walking. Talking. Coming in and out of buildings. They wear odd clothing and some of the women walk in awkward shoes that appear to be raised beneath their heels. Many carry bags that seem impractical, too large or too small. I can’t stop staring.
    Beyond all the things I don’t understand—the new shapes, sounds, materials—there is one thing I do: the men. They are abundant. There are as many as the women. Some are young—my age or children—but there are old men, too, middle-aged to ancient. They have creases on their faces and gray hair on their heads. They have skin as dry as parchment and eyes that