Ebony Hill (15 page)

“It was wrong, Farra,” I say. “What Brenon did to the prisoners was wrong.”

“Even though we can’t be safe without the information he gained?”

“We can’t be sure it’s true. And even if it is, maybe they’d have told us anyway if we’d shown them compassion instead of violence.”

Farra looks away across the hills for a full minute. When he turns back to me, his gaze is gentle. “If you knew which of them killed Esha, would you choose compassion then?” he asks.

I’m silent. Farra selects a nearby boulder for a seat. “Life’s not simple,” he adds. “For myself, I prefer knowing the reasons they attacked us. If they’d had no motivation beyond violence alone, that would make it worse in my reckoning.”

“You believe their story then, that they were driven out of their community?”

“It’s possible.” Wind gusts along the slope, carrying the scent of wildflowers on its breath. I unfurl myself a little. “And it means there could be a way forward, if we can convince the group they came from to talk to us,” Farra adds.

“You think it’s part of Brenon’s plan, to give them that option?”

Farra shrugs.

The silence that stretches between us is comfortable, my bitterness eased a fraction. A bird rounds the flank of the hill, tilts a wing to climb above us, circles once and is gone. Idly I wonder whether it was the same bird that called earlier and whether it’s searching for a mate, or food, or a place to belong. I wonder which of those things it might find.

As the clouds thicken to shut away the sun and the wind reminds us we’re still a long way from midsummer, Farra stirs. “We should be getting back.”

Reluctance unspools within me. “How’s your wound?” I ask.

He lifts a hand from his knee and lays it flat against his side. “It’ll heal. Pulls a bit.”

Two days ago, Saice supervised while I removed the stitches from the raw, puckered flesh. “You’re lucky the knife didn’t go deeper,” I tell him.

“And found me where I’ve flesh to spare.” He pats his stomach. “Protective plating I call it.”

Farra is built like Uncle Marn, barrel-chested and strong. “Saice said it will be another month before it’s properly healed,” I remind him.

“Aye, well. I’ve never been one for putting my feet up.” He stands.

Some of the wounded have no choice. An image of the bloody pulp that had once been a man’s leg springs unbidden to my mind. The memory of it sends me leaping to my feet, words bursting out of me like pus from a wound. “I don’t think I’m suited to med-sci.”

Farra eyes me with surprise. “You must be the only
one who doesn’t,” he says. “Saice would never have coped without you.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to deal with … with wounds people inflict on each other.”

“There’s plenty to med-sci besides that,” he says.

“As well as that,” I say. “You can’t pick and choose.”

He doesn’t disagree. “Give it time,” is all he says.

How long, I wonder, till the memories of carnage are cleared from my mind? “I don’t understand why anyone ever made guns and bombs.”

“There’s plenty they did in the past that makes no sense – maybe some of what we do as well,” he tells me. “That’s for those who come after to judge.”

The tide of anger that washed out my words has retreated. I feel hollow and emptied. With a sigh, I turn and begin to scramble back down the hillside.

We’re nearly back at the farm when a rifle shot sounds, then another. Farra’s fingers close on my shoulder as I flinch.

The silence hangs taut as a storm sail, belly-full of wind. My voice comes out a croak. “There weren’t enough.”

“They weren’t the first,” he says. “It’s over now.”

Remembering my conversation with Ronan, I shake my head. “It’s not,” I say. “I’m not sure it can ever be over.”

Tiredness pours like wet sand through my bones. Pushing my elbows back I arch my spine. Ahead of me, rows of knee-high weeds threaten to engulf the corn, planted before the paras took Summertops. The calluses chafe on my palm as I tighten my grip on the hoe, my eyes skittering across the hills. Despite the scouts who stayed behind when Brenon led a merged unit north, vulnerability shrouds the farm like a dark, cloying cloud.

As if that’s not enough, the weather has turned against us. A spate of cold westerly rains have left the fields too heavy for the plough, while the wind has taken a high toll of the newly sprouted plants. The seedlings are like the farm residents, I think: so battered they’ve lost heart.

Two days ago Truso went up to Summertops. There was a sense of held-breath in the community till he returned, and after.

“Decon are doing their best,” he told us, “but they don’t have the expertise. We’ve lost around a quarter of the ewe flock and about half the early lambs. The goats
are still scattered. Feed-crops are yet to be sown and the horses are gone. We need manpower.”

No one spoke. We all know that Summertops is our northernmost farm; that if the paras return, it will likely be Summertops that again takes the brunt of the attack.

Truso scrubbed a hand across his face and I wondered how much it had cost him, to see first-hand the aftermath of the invasion.

“I’ve sent a request to Vidya for volunteers to resettle Summertops.”

No one speaks.

Before he left, Brenon revoked martial law, but that’s a gain that works two ways. Catha last night declared she’d be taking her daughters back to Vidya as soon as the new crews arrive. This morning at breakfast another family announced they’d be doing the same. with each day that passes, Truso sees all he’s gained wasting away.

It’s near dark when I trudge back towards the farmhouse. There’s none of the laughter and jesting the field crews once shared. The group walks in silence. I keep a little apart. Saice says it’s no more than that everyone is tired. That’s true, but it’s not the only truth. Since the trial I’ve felt less comfortable among the farm’s residents than I did before.

Jago told me, when I was last checking his bruises, that he admired me for speaking up on behalf of the prisoners.

“You must be the only one,” I answered.

He’d shaken his head. “A lot of people agree with your
sentiments, Ness. It’s applying them they have trouble with.”

Saice had paused in her assessment of Jago’s damaged lungs. “There’s no crime in having a dissenting voice,” she said. “Tolerance is one of Vidya’s greatest strengths.”

Perhaps she’s right; perhaps they both are. But it seems to me that believing in tolerance is worth little if you can’t find a way to apply it.

As I cross the yard, a figure splits off from a group standing near the kitchen door.

“Ness!”

The voice stops me in my tracks. “Dev?”

In four strides he’s before me and wraps me in a hug that strains my aching bones. “You’re well?” He searches my face. “When we had news of the attack, I …”

I feel numb and somehow hollow, like an emptied flask, light enough to be carried off on a wisp of breeze.

Dev holds me at arm’s length. “Ness.” His voice is warm as a caress. “I’d never have forgiven myself if you’d been harmed – or Ronan.”

A little weight comes back into me. “Ronan’s working in the implement shed,” I tell him, stepping back so that Dev’s hands drop to his sides. “He knows about machinery and there’s some problem with the plant that powers the water pump – it’s something to do with the fire I think.” My voice is flat and tired.

“I’ve seen him. He told me what you’ve been through – what everyone has been through.” He shakes his head. “Esha and the others: it’s so hard to believe.”

We’ve not had the luxury of distance from the horror.
I shrug a shoulder.

Dev lifts a hand then lets it fall. “Ness, I’m so sorry. I know how much Esha meant to you. I wish I’d never agreed to let you come – you or Ronan.”

“It would have happened whether we were here or not.”

“Yes, but I still feel responsible for putting you at risk.”

His eyes are latticed by a network of fine lines. The lines are new, I think. I know Dev’s face near as well as my own – at least I did. He’s aged since Dunnett, and I’ve had less chance to study him, besides. Shifting my hoe to stand between us, I turn the subject away from the tragedies we’ve suffered. “Shouldn’t you be with
Explorer
? I thought Lara wanted to leave straight away, to study spring migration patterns.”

Dev ruffles my hair – as if I’m a child, I think ungraciously. “I couldn’t go without knowing you were safe.”

Despite myself, his words release a rush of warmth in my chest, not only that Dev stayed behind for my sake, but that he cares enough to walk all the way from Vidya to be sure that I’m all right.

“And anyway,” he adds, “the governors put the project on hold till the situation at Ebony Hill was resolved. Lara’s using the time to put together an application to extend our work. She thinks we should establish a base north of Vidya, closer to the fishing grounds.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t need you to stay and help her,” I say.

My irony is lost on him. “She’ll do a far better job than I could. As well as that, her brother lives at Dales. I promised I’d get her first-hand news.”

Realisation prickles through me slow but steady. Dev’s enthusiasm for research trips, his plans, even his journey to the farms: the thread that binds them together has nothing at all to do with me. A part of me gapes in surprise that I’ve never noticed before. Another part wonders whether I care.

“It took us the best part of four days to get here,” Dev says. “The governors will have to make reinstating the jigger line a priority.”

“There are a lot of priorities,” I say, a little tersely.

“Of course there are,” he soothes me. “The fisheries research is one of them. Lara’s hoping the delays won’t affect the outcome too badly. If we get approval for a base, then we should be able to …”

I tune out from his words. He has no idea what it’s been like. For people in Vidya the news from the farms may have been horrifying or even tragic, but it didn’t impact on their lives. They don’t know what we’ve been through; they can’t.

“It would allow more time for analysis,” Dev is saying. “A second, land-based team could carry out the more extensive tests far more efficiently than when we have to bring the samples all the way back to Vidya. We could even look at wintering over,” he adds. “Lara thinks that—”

I don’t care what Lara thinks. A wave of anger at his absorption in his own little world has begun to build in my belly, surging up through the sinking tide of
happiness. Zeek, coming alongside us, reaches a hand to steady me. “Look out, she’s going to faint,” he warns.

I lurch away from their concern. “I’m just tired.”

Zeek takes the hoe from my hand. “Go inside Ness. I’ll put the tools away.” I stare at him wildly, at the dark hollows beneath his eyes. He’s a fine one to talk.

Dev wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me towards the house. All at once I want to cry.

“You need to learn to take care of yourself,” Dev chides, nudging me into a chair. Saice comes to look me over.

“Here.” She fills a mug with broth and pushes it into my hands. “We’ve none of us been sleeping well,” she says over my head. “There’s so much—” She breaks off and turns away.

Dev squats in front of me, hemming me into the chair. I keep my eyes on the broth, hiding my face behind its steam, avoiding the need for speech by gulping a mouthful. It tracks hot down my throat. When it reaches my stomach something baulks. Shoving the mug into Dev’s hands I struggle up, hand against my mouth.

“Ness?” Dev stands with me.

My breath is ragged but I at least manage to curb the impulse to retch. With his frown set deep, Dev looks older than his thirty-four years. An image of that same frown on his face as he searched for Lara across the crowded dining hall in Vidya fills my mind.

He reaches a hand towards me and I bat it away. “Leave me alone!”

“Ness, I know it’s been hard, but—”

My foot catches the chair leg, scraping it across the tiled
floor. Everyone in the kitchen is staring. Shouldering past Aiya I hurry into the hall, gaining some small measure of satisfaction as I slam the door behind me.

A familiar voice intrudes on my brooding. “Ness?”

Surprise shunts my self-pity aside. I sit up. “What are you doing here?”

Anjan stands as if poised to flee. Scrubbing a hand across my face, I shuffle back against the wall.

“I volunteered for the seasonal work crew – I’m the youngest member.”

I blow my nose. Anjan walks hesitantly to the edge of the bed. “Has it been really bad, Ness?”

My eyes ache from crying. I settle for a nod.

She lowers herself gingerly onto the edge of the bed. “I’m really sorry,” she says. “About Esha especially.”

Perhaps grief is like a crack in a dam – once breached, there’s no holding back the flood. I twist the handkerchief between my hands, not meeting her eyes.

“Devdan’s worried about you,” she says. “He had an argument with Truso – you probably heard them shouting.”

I don’t want to discuss Dev. “I’m amazed the governors let you come,” I say.

Her hesitation tells me as much as her words. “There weren’t many volunteers,” she answers at last. “Aiya said I might use one of the empty beds in here,” she adds. “She said the scouts are using the bunkhouse.”

I wave a hand. “That one’s Tanlin’s, but she won’t be here for much longer. Either of the others is fine.”

A noise at the door alerts us. Anjan springs up at the sight of Ronan.

“Have you two met?” I ask. Anjan shakes her head. I introduce them. “Anjan was my room-mate back in Vidya.”

There’s an awkward silence. Anjan edges towards the door like a skittish colt. “I’ll go and get my things.”

Her shyness has grown worse – either that or it’s Ronan specifically who’s unsettled her. I tip my head, trying to see him as she might. His bones are better covered than they were when we left Vidya – he’s probably alone among us in looking better for the experiences of the past month, though he shares the familiar hallmarks of exhaustion. The cut on his cheek will leave a scar, I think.

I draw my arms and legs into a knot. “Anjan was saying there’s been an argument.”

Ronan nods. “Devdan accused Truso of not taking care of you.”

My spine straightens. “That’s ridiculous! It’s Truso who’s held us all together. He—” I break off. “Dev thinks I’m still a child,” I mutter.

Ronan says nothing.

“I’m not,” I add, for clarity.

“He hasn’t come to join the field crew,” Ronan says, after a pause. “He’s going back to Vidya as soon as he’s been up to Dales.”

His tone carries no judgment, but I can’t share his restraint. “He has his research to get back to,” I say, then shrug off my sarcasm. “They don’t understand what it’s been like.”

Ronan makes a small noise of agreement.

“Maybe they can’t,” I add.

“There’ll be others who go back with him.”

Unfolding my legs, I place my feet on the floor, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress.

“Saice asked me to tell you that dinner’s ready,” Ronan says. “And that you have to eat.”

My stomach lets out an anticipatory growl and Ronan’s mouth quirks. As he meets my eyes, I launch my question. “Are you going to stay at Ebony Hill?”

His eyes roam the room, fingers opening and closing on the edge of the door. “Depends,” he says. A silence stretches between us, soft as thistledown. He studies me from beneath the fall of his hair. “Are you?”

My body feels old and stiff as I cross to the window. Darkness has swallowed all but the outline of the hills. Even the barn is no more than a vague shadow. Adjusting my focus, I study my own reflection in the glass. “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought …” The nub of misery that turned the tap on my tears loosens. “When I first came to Vidya, I thought that I’d belong somewhere at last, but I don’t.”

Ronan says nothing. Turning my back on the yard, I look down at my hands, at the dirt ingrained in my skin and lodged beneath my nails. “At first I thought it might be all right here, but not now.” Tears clag in my voice and I shake them away. “Not after this.”

Ronan’s eyes graze mine and slide away.

“I don’t mean because of the war. Because of what they decided about the prisoners. That they—” I stop,
not wanting to say the words. Not wanting, either, to sound a hypocrite. I take a breath. “I don’t belong,” I say. “Maybe there’s nowhere I belong.”

Ronan tips his head. “What makes anyone belong anywhere?” he asks.