The Menagerie, Part II

Only the children born to the City who might be laughing in the plazas are summoned, by a light tap on the shoulder from a hand in yellow robes when they reach the age of unbuckled curiosity about the world which lies beyond the City’s walls. Nothing has been hidden from them; the libraries are filled with the brain trust of those who reached the City— from their clustered illuminated manuscripts to their shrunken, shimmering devices.

Only the children born to the City can become elders and wear the yellow robes and even the youngest of their number has been into the chambers at least once.

Only the children born to the City who know filth and stench only as words are nauseated as they descend into a space broad and dark as a lightless curfew and follow wordless their elders’ yellow robes whom the they do not resist, fearful of being disobedient.

Only the children born to the City form a chain, hand-to-hand through the narrow jet, until finally a shimmer from the brilliant yellow robes on glass, just enough illumination, until finally up comes light and something, a group of hairy somethings, who look kin to man cranes their unfocused eyes to spit, some even leap, but the near-monstrosities slam against a wall of air.

Only the children born to the City are startled until the elders in yellow robes assure them, the people are caged by glass, impenetrable but just atoms thick.

Only the children born to the City obtain the explanation—these were the emigrants who did not assimilate, those who asked too many of the wrong questions, those who sought to leave with the total knowledge and intent to kill or cure the world beyond, the world about which they are all now so curious.

Only the children born to the City are given the choice of secrecy, or the single chance to leave for the outer world. And for each of them there are folded yellow robes, and beside the robes are shoulder sacks filled with provisions and a pass that will carry them past the phalanxes of guards at the gates of the City. All comprehend this warrant; if any of them were threats, they would be already behind the glass.

Some of the children born to the City snatch up a sack and dash toward the exit, but nearly every single one discovers the step before entrance as unyielding as the glass that holds the women and men of the chamber.

Some of the children born to the City peer for hours into the cages of the stir-crazy menaces whose eyes have now adjusted to the light, but who do not know, or do not care that the glass has muted everything but their scent.

Some of the children born to the City weep into the yellow robes of their elders, but their tears roll entirely off of that peculiar silk onto the floor.