"Under the Dime" by Kev Perkins; Opening Scene of Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Rhubarb Tarte

Thick ribbons of steam framed Arden’s face. Hovering before an opened oven, he scanned the pale domes of a dozen, freshly risen buns. He inhaled and sighed, dazzled by the creamy-ripe aroma of yeast on grain. Intent on caramelizing the swollen boules into gold, he shut the oven door and flipped a quarter-hourglass. 

It was early Tuesday morning. Outside the small porthole window above the stove, the city’s cobblestone streets were quiet and shiny, shellacked by summer night rains and blanketed by a gentle fog. The sky was ripening, its greyish haze paling into a cyan morning.

“Oh!” Dawn already?

Arden spun to salt a batch of buns already cooling at his dough bench. Once properly seasoned, looking like they’d been adorned with a smattering of tiny pearls, the buns were sped into the lounge with a bang of swinging doors. Zipping through tables and chairs to the front, Arden came to a halt before a large bay window of silver-stained glass, its yellow haze casting the room into sepia twilight.

He set the tray on the sill and selected the most spherical, perfectly crusted bun from the batch. Gazing at the window, he kneeled to hold the bun forward with cupped hands, mimicking the glasswork’s crude image of a man on his knees, hands splayed and mouth agape. “The Ochre’s Supplication” was plastered across every Ochry in Caylum. With its depiction of enviable sacrifice, the holy motif had always painted conflicting colors for Arden: a deep silver melancholy, flaxen at its edges with sentiment. A perplexingly doleful optimism.

“Coquere ad urbem, pascat traditionem nostram,” he whispered. In the corner of the sill, an aged, silver monstrance stood importantly. A central glass orb was set in its large criss-cross of filigreed dowels, all surrounded by a burst of shining, metallic spokes. Opening the orb along its tiny, rusted hinge, he gently set the bun inside. 

“—us our daily bread, for Him and for Caylum.” 

Arden recommenced at the lounge’s counter, where he meticulously positioned the remaining buns in an ornate display cabinet of tarnished silver. Like most furnishings in the Ochry he baked for, the cabinet had been in use by generations of Ochres before him, so he treated it and the lounge’s furniture with earnest veneration. With the buns all set in order, he grabbed a broom and began his usual opening tasks: sweeping the centuries’ dust back into the corners; wiping the rickety wooden tables; roasting the week's ration of coffee beans; lighting the oil sconces about the lounge. He worked quickly, but a calming mundanity settled as he whistled one of the few melodies he knew. 

Arden prided himself with the peace he found in his work. He was now 30, and although he’d enjoyed some of his youthful Decade working the farms with the Carobs or spending hours in the library with the Sagers, he’d never felt resentful towards his inevitable, assigned position. His place in this city as an Ochre—a baker—granted a sense of belonging. 

As the last sconce sizzled into a warm glow, a sudden rap cut through the silence. Arden jumped. At the front door, peeking under the closed sign, was a tall, hunched man holding a canvas bag.

"Dem?" Arden scrambled to the doorway and glared through warped glass. "It's not even 6,” he whined more to himself and released the latch.

"Ardie, you’re gonna kiss me," Dem said and pushed his way inside. Arden hid his face and re-latched the door. Blushing crimson, he couldn’t help smiling. Demetrius Carob had remained his best, and in truth, singular, friend in Caylum, ever since they’d met during Arden’s Decade of cycling through the ten Hues.

Dem lugged the bag to the nearest table and brushed obsidian-black locs from his face. Now standing upright, Dem’s tall, thin frame looked almost comical next to the small, worn furniture. Yet, somehow, the man’s height never lent an awkward air to his gait; he carried himself with an unbothered audacity that Arden often envied. But then again, Arden may have attained the same confidence if he’d been permitted Dem’s masculine face, toned muscle, and uncommonly deep skin tone. With a tinge of shame, Arden caught himself staring at his friend’s rain-drenched arms, which, today, glimmered like wet loam after a light summer’s rain…

Dem clapped his hands together in a singular SMACK, which softened into a muffle amongst the crowded furniture.

“So I know ya gotta birthday comin’ up...”

“Oh?” Arden adored presents and stood on his toes to peek in the bag.

“Yup,” Dem said but shielded its contents. “S’pose I should mention first. I looted some seeds last Equinox…” He waved his hand casually. Arden opened his mouth to object but Dem interjected, “just breathe, Ardie. No one’ll care.”

“But—”

“—I took ‘em from a silo way out in Halo 7, never seen ‘em before. I fenced my own patch on the farm, just to play around with 'em. And? They’re finally ripe…" Dem grinned as he rapped on the table for effect. Arden crossed his arms (his friend’s disregard for rules had induced many palpitations in the past). Dem laughed heartily in response, lifted the bag, and pulled out several bunches of long, ruby-red stalks tipped with wilted leaves. 

“Rhubarbs!” He said, eyes bright.

"Excuse you?”

"Rhubarbs. They’re stunnin’, these veggies. Thought ya could work ‘em into a bun or somethin’.” Dem snapped a stalk from the bunch for Arden to inspect closer.

"I see…”

“Ya see?” Dem echoed. “Come off it, these’ll blast that ol’ Ochre twat in Halo 5 right outta the sky! Ya don’t like em’?”

“No, no, it’s great! But I'm perfectly fine with the rations we've got, and—wait, what's wrong with my buns? They're traditional. My Angel says we’re to bake for—"

"—bake for community and feed tradition."

"Our!"

"What?"

"It's 'our tradition'."

"Fuckin’ yikes, mate," Dem groaned, "I swear ya’d lick your Angel’s feet if ya gotta chance.” Arden frowned indignantly, though his cheeks blushed. He did rather revere his Ochre Hue’s Angel and respect her leadership. Dem chuckled. “Branch outta bit. Give the ol’ Missal a break.” Dem gave Arden a soft whack on the head with the perspiring rhubarb, depositing several red beads across his forehead. Arden rubbed his brow and examined his crimson-stained hands.

“All right, they’re interesting," he admitted. Dem grinned. "And really, the color is quite beautiful. I guess the Lapises have more to worry about than what I'm putting in my buns." Dem half-heartedly suppressed a laugh and snorted. Arden’s eyes narrowed. “I'll see what I can make from them.” He took the armful from Dem and headed behind the counter.

"Ya know, for loving rules, gotta say it’s a shocker to see ya without your habit.” Dem motioned towards his own brown, muslin tunic with cork-leather belt, a signifier of his Carob Hue.

Arden gasped. He was indeed bare-chested, scant in his trousers. He dropped the rhubarb on the counter, covered his nipples melodramatically, and darted into the kitchen. Dem watched on, bemused. Arden scanned the back room for his own habit. He found a short-sleeved cream undershirt hanging on the oven handle, and strung upon the back alley door, a deep-yellow apron. Every resident was required to wear their habit when in public, and Arden wasn't one to challenge law. It also helped that he’d cherished his Ochre apron ever since he’d received it 8 years ago. He’d always hated that sickly gray habit he had to don for the first 22 years of his life. Its scratchy fabric, that dour shape, the lifeless color, had all made him feel like he had no purpose. 

But now, he thought as he donned his aging apron, its waxed canvas holding strong with dark yellows faded in splotches like fine patina, I have purpose. He snatched a dish towel from his bench and stuffed it in the back strap of his apron (for him, a dish towel was akin to a third appendage). As he smoothed out the creases of his habit in the kitchen, Dem snuck a Cocoa Biscuit from the lounge’s cabinet and shouted through a mouthful of shortened pastry.

"Ya know, I think people’d figure you’re an Ochre anyways. All half naked-like and floured up—lookin’ like ya been boffin’ the dough,” he joked and took another bite of biscuit. “Probably not too far off, really…”

“Didn’t hear that," Arden sing-songed as he returned through swinging doors. “But I did hear Lapis guards have new quotas for ‘Habit Demurral’. I really should know better.” He intuitively handed his dish towel to Dem, whose mouth was coated in cocoa powder, and reclasped the cabinet display, not at all phased by his theft. Wanting to change the subject, Arden asked, "speaking of the Lapis…how’s that newest conquest? Already on to the next victim?”

"Hey, no victims, just runners-up,” Dem said with conviction and wiped his lips. “But this time’s different. Luci’s somethin’ special.”

“Yeah, and so was that Saffron girl last year. And Dion—remember when she was 'the one'? Then there's Flora. What was it you said, ‘great tits for a Mauven'? I mean, blazes, the romance is on high.”

“I’m telling ya, this is different!” Dem said. His eyes glazed over. “Me and Luci are just right, mate. She said she loved me yesterday."

"She said it first?!” Arden had accidentally shouted. He stepped back, trying to ignore an embarrassing pang of jealousy. He swiped the towel from Dem and took over dabbing at the powdery crumbs still littered about his tunic. He couldn’t feel more physically unlike his friend. With his soft body, large sheepish eyes, and sandy blonde hair puffed out at haphazard angles, looking constantly unsettled and anxious, he’d found himself the subject of much teasing. Even his skin was delicate, the very color of the whites of his eyes, so pale that in the right light, the cobalt webbing of his veins would unveil beneath pallid flesh like some grotesque, anatomical drawing. At least, Arden often thought to himself, he could find some common ground with Dem in terms of appearance, beautiful as his friend was. The average Caylum resident had smooth, olive skin and shiny, chestnut hair. Arden and Dem mutually contradicted the norm with their shared, sheer starkness. Wiping a cocoa stain upon Dem’s tunic, Arden breathed deeply to keep his cool and stifle any envy.

"I said it first,” Dem said, “screamed, more like it. Luci was on patrol by the farm yesterday, and I kinda just let it out. And she laughed! In a good way," he detailed after a grimace from Arden. "Then we spent the whole day together. The third date, really. And she said it back by sunset. Obviously. I’m seein’ her tonight. She thinks I’m funny. And the farmer's body is a plus, I’d bet." He grunted as he flexed his arms and puffed his chest. Arden sheepishly gave one last brush to Dem's tunic before pulling away.

"I haven’t even met her!” He whined and Dem shrugged. "A bit fast, no?”

“One can’t sway the inevitable winds of love,” Dem preached in a poetic voice sounding oddly like Arden’s. “And really, Carobs are a hot commodity these days, everyone wants a house on the farms. And I heard the Lapis Angel wants more women marryin', they gotta surplus. So ya could even say I’m doin’ Caylum a service.” 

Arden pursed his lips but couldn’t help agreeing. He had also heard grumblings about Hue imbalance. Marriages meant children and children carried on their father’s surnames, which, in turn, bolstered a Hue’s populace. In the past several decades alone, Caylum had gone through countless ups and downs. The Hues were wavering. Mauven underpopulation was harming the city's infrastructure from one year, and to the next, Sagers had become so many that students had two masters to one.

“I just don’t wanna screw this up. Luci’s something else,” Dem said, uncharacteristically earnest. Arden’s chest tightened.

“If you don’t want to ruin it, keep in mind she's a Lapis Guard. She doesn’t need some strong man. Be more thoughtful, show you care."

"Ha! No offense, not sure you're the woman expert here." Dem laughed and headed towards the door. "If ya’d actually have an ale with me outside this damned Ochry, maybe ya’d catch a girl yourself." Arden crossed his arms and seethed.

"You need to let that rest…”

“Just wanna get my best mate laid,” Dem mumbled. Arden opened the door to usher him out, but Dem resisted and said, “c’mon, you’re pushin’ 30, there’s gotta be some girl ya’ve been eyein’…”

“You’re exhausting. Get back to worrying about your own bed." A poker-hot self-consciousness would strike whenever Dem pushed women on him. He rolled his eyes and said, “sorry if it embarrasses you or whatever, but I’m happy with my life and I like being alo—” Arden let his flimsy defense trail off as a booming, staticky, deep voice echoed throughout the empty streets. 

“SUB DECEM CAELUM REGNAT, Amen.”

The Dime Prayer, preached over the city’s metatronic horns every morning, was a wakeup alarm for most. It was the rich voice of Him that always greeted the day, and as the surnameless sovereign of Caylum, Him was the only resident without an assigned Hue. He was highly esteemed by the public, especially Arden. As the creator of Caylum, as the immortal leader through all of those centuries, Him was beyond understanding. But Arden felt close to Him, nonetheless. There was solace in that intimacy whenever he felt alone. But, of course, Arden hadn’t actually met Him. Not physically, at least. No one has, none except the blessed nine of the Angel Hue. Arden did remember meeting his own Angel, his leader of the Ochre Hue, just once during his year’s Habit Ceremony. It was a special moment for him when he was awarded his prized apron and lifted into adulthood. The aging Ochre Angel, with her flowing white robes and deep yellow stole, had remained stoic and slack; her response to Arden’s gushing thanks had been a simple, curt nod. But Arden revered her, as he knew she represented Him, who was righteous and right.

Arden replied to the Dime Prayer out loud with a hushed amen. Looking back up, he saw Dem staring, one sardonic eyebrow reaching his hairline. Arden scoffed and forced Dem through the foyer, nearly slamming the man’s head against the doorframe. 

"That means you have 30 minutes to get to Halo 6," Arden said, largely relieved by the interruption. “Thanks for the rooboos, now go!”

"Rhubarb, Ardie. Rue-barb.” Dem laughed and looked Arden in the eyes before adding in a gentler tone, “ya don’t embarrass me, mate, okay? Promise." He lightly patted Arden’s shoulder before jogging into the waking streets.

Arden watched Dem run out of sight and sighed. Infuriatingly, he couldn’t stay mad at the man. He was just too charming. He stood still in the Ochry’s doorway, breathing in the crisp morning air as the evening fog dissipated. His attention rose to the sky, now clear of clouds and shaded a pure azure. Letting his eyes drop southwards, he could just see through the gap between the limestone buildings across the street, giving him a view of the lower Halos. With 7 Halos in total, these neighborhood-like rings radiated from the elevated plinth of the city’s Central Forum in layered tiers, flattening out in the farmlands of Halos 6 and 7 like a gargantuan, stone-frosted layer-cake city enveloped by the green croplands of spring. And beyond the fields of Halo 7, at the edge of Caylum several miles out, an impending white enclosure sputtered in the distance. Arden gazed on with typical awe.

An opalescent, pale ring of perpetual white smog surrounded the city of Caylum. It forever rose from the ground as if a thick, ivory smoke was surging from unseen embers and dissipating a mile high towards the sky, its vapors opaque and glossy. From afar, the wall looked like a giant circle of rippled white oil that encapsulated the city’s limits, a fierce, milky wave that ceaselessly rolled but never shifted its protective position.

The Pearl. Ominous as it may have appeared, Arden felt comforted by its permanent rise and constant rumbling. Rumors were abound of what exactly lay outside of the Pearl, if anything at all, but these mutterings were a topic of hushed conversation, such that Arden would avoid whenever Dem brought it up. It was outright heretical to declare the existence of life beyond Caylum. Him himself had preached that it was just the Abyss, an endless expanse where damned souls, weighted in apostasy, were banished after death, precluded from rising to the skies. In Arden’s staunch support of Him, however, he knew that a lifetime lived with grace and humility, in service, would ultimately keep him far away from the Abyss of the damned. There was comfort in that thought, as horrific as it may be at its surface.

Arden flinched as the Pearl crackled menacingly in the distance, its gentle rumble invariably audible from every Halo in the city. He gave one last lookover, admiring the powerful wave in its oily white splendor, and headed back inside, flipping the sign to Open. Before he could take two steps in, the door swung back inward and thwacked him in the heels. 

"What're you standing around for?" An impatient woman in a blush-colored frock stood in the doorway. She was a Fuchsian, a medic, and always in such a rush that even after 8 years at this Ochry, Arden still hadn’t learned her name. "Coffee, Ochreman, coffee! I'm late enough!"

Bake for community, indeed.