Authors: Kate Wrath
Eden (15 page)
He takes a deep breath, sits back, readjusts his position.
After a while, he says, "So, Matt."
I sigh and give him a wistful look. I don't have to say
anything.
The corners of Apollon's mouth twitch, but he graciously
forsakes the full-on grin. "Of course you like him." That's his
reasonable voice. "I mean, he's got the whole sexy villain thing going
on. Who wouldn't fall for that?"
"Semi-evil overlord," I correct automatically.
"We'd all be toast if it wasn't for Matt."
He snorts. "We'd all be toast if it wasn't for
you
."
I sigh again, looking at the ground. "And what about
Outpost Three? Did we just leave them to... die?" For a moment, I feel
the pain of the possibility, remember the army of Sentries surrounding the
Outpost. The voice threatening death to all of its residents. I was supposed
to find a way to remove that threat. But it’s been so long. So incredibly
much longer than we ever expected it to take. And I still haven’t fulfilled my
mission.
Apollon's gold mane flops emphatically as he shakes his
head. "Not if they did
that
. I mean...." He raises his
eyebrows.
If Matt, or Miranda, or
whoever
in Outpost Three was
responsible for saving Apollon last night, then they've come farther than we
could know. They probably don't need us at all. But....
Apollon looks off into the distance. He's thinking it, too.
"What if it wasn't them?" I whisper.
His blue eyes turn back to me, communicating what neither of
us wants to ask.
Then who?
On top of that is a slew of other questions. Like, for
starters, what could possibly do that to a Sentry?
Running, panting, running. My feet scramble over the
pavement that slides underneath me like a conveyor belt. I’m running, but I’m
not getting anywhere.
The metal claw closes around my ribcage, rendering me
immobile, wringing the breath from my lungs. I can't escape, can't do anything
more than struggle uselessly against the monster. The Sentry's other hand
swings in a wide, deadly arc toward my face. I want to close my eyes, to deny
my blatant mortality, but I can't. I watch the deathstroke in slow motion. A
scream pours out of my mouth, filling the air with a bloody pool of terror.
The momentum of the arm transfers into a full-bodied pivot.
The Sentry whirls and leaps. I swish through the air, an accessory to its
graceful gesture. I dangle, like a rose, above several thousand pounds of
metal, all of it engaged in a delicate trickling of steps, gingerly
choreographed iron tiptoes, machinated limbs expressing the inner music of
humanity.
Baffled. I'm absolutely baffled.
The Sentry swishes and sashays, granting me a view of the
sky. Sunlight glistens like spider web dew on fine filaments that stretch to
the heavens. And there, kneeling on a cloud—of all people—is Matt. A wooden
cross in his outstretched hand secures the tops of the Sentry-puppet's strings.
He smiles at me and waves.
I wake, gasping for breath, for air, for sanity.
Sitting up in bed, I'm soaked. My shirt sticks to me,
making a sucking sound as I pull it out and fan myself with it. There's an
oddness at first. A
where am I
? A
which way round should the room
be
? It seems to pivot directionally and come right. Then it’s just a
moment to blink away the fuzzy head, but the dream still lingers—Matt on his
cloud. The grin. The wave.
For the past several nights, I've been haunted by similar
phantoms. Sometimes I've remembered. Sometimes not. But there's a theme.
Something poking at me. A seedling trying to break the hard-packed surface.
Tonight, for the first time, I understand. Maybe it's
because last night, my dreams made me cry. Made me reach for Jonas in the hot,
damp night, because I couldn't face the agonizing immediacy they produced in
me. Tonight, with understanding, I need him again. I reach to my side to
shake him awake and share my realization. My hand falls on empty bed.
I blink around the darkness of the apartment.
"...Jonas?"
At the foot of the bed, a ball of fur stretches, pads toward
me, and rubs its cat-breath face in mine.
"Hey, cat," I murmur, running my fingers through
its surprisingly silky fur. "Where's Jonas?" Like cats can talk.
But I allow myself that moment of furry affection, hair in the air, claws in my
legs, motor running, to get myself all the way to consciousness. Then I drop
the feline to the side and climb out of bed to a meowing protest.
I'm only a couple of steps away from the bed when I register
the murmur of voices. I freeze and listen. They're coming from below.
Nothing I can make out. I form my steps as silently as possible, moving across
the room, turning the doorknob slowly with even pressure. I manage to slip out
without making any noise. The stairwell is empty—I told my guards to station
themselves outside when what I really wanted to tell them was to jump off a
tall building. At least there's a little space. I sit on the top stair and
listen. The voices are louder out here. I can identify owners, but not
words. Jonas, Spec, and Kobee, all engaged in serious tones and intense
fragments. They're discussing something important. Without me. Why didn't
Jonas wake me? Or was this planned—to meet without me? I stay here on the top
step for a long time, contemplating the implications, wondering about motives
and betrayals. Part of me bristles instantly at the thought of Jonas keeping
things from me. This rings of old times—Jonas making decisions without
anyone's input. Taking risks. Making choices. I don't like being left out of
the choice-making.
I consider barging in on them, demanding to be told what's
going on. Or sneaking down to the door and trying to listen. For a while, I
try to catch words, but I can't catch enough to string anything together.
Since I don't appreciate the indignity of having to barge in, I decide to
waylay Jonas later. Disparaged, I retreat back to bed, where I try to sleep,
but don't. I keep hearing the voices below, which is irritating at best. But
worst of all is that Jonas is not here with me. I can't confide in him, like I
wanted to. No. I can't confide in him at all.
***
Jonas' fingers clamp around my arm, stopping me from
following the others. "I don't understand," he says, leaning close.
"Why are you being like this with me?"
I blink at him. Really? He wants to talk about it
now
,
two days later, when we're getting ready to—I don't even want to think about
what we're getting ready to do.
Another holiday
? Apollon said.
Sounds good to
me. Especially the kind that only comes once every seven years
. He was
anticipating some major partying. But that was yesterday, with little
information. Today, he's refusing to come along. I can't say I blame him.
I try to pull my arm away from Jonas, but his fingers may as
well be welded there. "Jonas." The impatience in my tone says it
all. "Now? Really?"
He shakes his head and looks away. "I've been trying
to get a chance to talk to you," he says. "I've been so busy. There
hasn’t been time."
I raise my eyebrows at him. Maybe the answer is in the
question? But he looks blank.
"Eden," he says, his voice touching my name
softly. Not that. Not Nice Jonas.
I lean closer to him, dropping my voice. "Maybe if you
weren't so busy holding secret conferences every night with your drinking
buddies over there—" I dart a glance toward Spec and Kobee, "you'd
have time."
Understanding dawns on his face. He says nothing.
I give him a pointed look, rip my arm away, and start
walking, following the herd.
He falls quickly in beside me, but I head him off with a
change of subject.
"This doesn't make sense," I say. "All of
Miami, gathering in one place? We spend the rest of the time bombing each
other, and now we're going to an inter-tribe death picnic, or what?"
Jonas' voice reflects a belief in the answer he gives.
"They have their ways. Sometimes, they put aside differences.
Compartmentalizing, I guess."
I glance at him. "That's supposedly what they do at
Freefall, too, right?"
He nods.
"Only, they couldn't. Wynwood wouldn't go to the
island party because they didn't want to be around... it was one of the
southern tribes, right? One we have some kind of ceasefire with?"
He frowns at me.
"But here we are going to this...
thing
... with
them, with the guys we
don't
have a ceasefire with, and god knows what
else. It doesn't make any sense."
We walk in silence for a while, following the band of
Council members, led by a ring of guards. Finally, he clears his throat.
"This holiday is different. It's more important." His eyes scan
over my face as we walk. "You heard their voices when they told us about
it, Eden. It's sacred."
I sigh, scanning through the crowd. We're all decked out in
our finest—as odd as some of it might be. They've put flowers and feathers in
my hair. Our faces and bodies are painted. There's a trail of scarves and
dangling bits and billowy embellishments floating on the wind behind us.
"It better be sacred," I mumble, "if we're
meant to keep from tearing each other apart."
His fingers slide into mine and he squeezes. "Don't
worry," he says. "They're sure. There won't be any violence."
I risk a glance at him, hating that I'm already melting,
with so little effort from him to make things right between us. He hasn't even
given me an explanation. Not even a promise of an explanation. "There's
going to be plenty of violence," I mutter. "Against our own
people."
Jonas squeezes my hand tighter. "It's hard for me,
too. Especially now, with what we're on the verge of accomplishing. But this
is the last time. Seven years from now, the Return will be history."
My eyes prod his face, searching every intent, every
meaning. I'm starting to feel cold.
He pulls me closer to his side as we continue our walk.
"You look beautiful today," he says. "Perfect."
I manage a fleeting smile for him, but something heavy is
taking hold inside me. A sense of dread. I don't want to do this. Don't want
to see it. But I have no choice.
We follow our procession—that's what it is—down the street
to a wide-open square. All the way, there's fanfare, but when we arrive, it is
suddenly replaced by silence. There are already people in the square. Not
droves. A spattering of bodies, bedecked as we are, sitting solemnly in the
sunshine. There's a breeze—quiet like our thoughts—lifting feathers and wisps
of hair, caressing faces. We silently form a semi-circle around the people.
Footsteps are trodden lightly, as if we are standing on hallowed ground. After
we make our formation, the rest of the people come. They seep out of the
buildings, appearing as ghosts. I have never seen such a mass of people so
incredibly silent.
The ones who were here before us rise to their feet, take
each other's hands, and lead us off down the street. We follow in their wake,
without a sound, with the quietest of breath. Even the children among us walk
without giggles or whispers. Only the sound of an infant crying rises above
us, but lasts a fleeting moment before, soothed by its mother, the sound drifts
away on the wind.
The procession to Shorecrest is long and solemn. Today, we
pass through territories that belong to our allies and enemies.
They
migrate in great masses through
our
territory. No one bats an eyelash
or mutters a foul word. Whoever we are, whatever our differences, today we
really do lay them aside. It's a baffling phenomenon, and a beautiful one. To
think that we are capable of this—however brief the moment—leads me to hope
that we might someday learn to live with each other in peace.
For now, we are a city of quiet walkers, pacing evenly
toward an event I can't begin to comprehend.
Celine took half an afternoon to try to explain it to me.
To explain how far back it went, how it started, and how all the tribes honor
it. Logically, the Return has its reasons. But there was no amount of
explaining that could get through to my heart. Maybe it's because I'm still
plagued with guilt for making my own sacrifice. I
chose
to kill
George—or Caleb, as he was really called—in order to save Jonas, Apollon, and
myself. I should understand this—that sometimes people have to die so that
others may live. Maybe that's the problem. I understand it, but I don't
accept it.
As it is, I expect to endure yet another horror today. To
gain another scar. To have one more set of images to haunt my sleep.
I glance at Jonas as we arrive at the gathering in
Shorecrest, wondering what he's thinking, how he's talking himself through this
with his usual steel mask.
The Council and my guards part ways ahead of us, forming a
channel through which Jonas and I walk toward a huge bridge. As we come to its
beginning, I get the full view of the water, lapping at its supports—a
tremendous bay that stretches as far as I can see. It's like my first glimpse
of the wilderness, making me small and large all at once.
I've never been on a bridge before, though I've gone under
some. I can't escape the trepidation—the feeling that when I step onto it, the
whole thing will sink. The ancient structure is stained, pitted, and cracked.
It already bears the weight of a large number of people. Surely it can hold a
couple more.
I step forward, because I have to. It's not enough for us
to be here. Jonas and I are to participate in the ceremony, tending to our
tribesmen. Anything less would be unheard of. So, while the majority of
Wynwood, Council included, files into huge spectator stands along the
shoreline, Jonas and I trail in the wake of the doomed onto the bridge.
There is a spot, some distance out, that is Wynwood's. Each
tribe has their own place. A path is kept open along the right rail so that we
may pass. The bridge is quiet, but as we go by, there are murmurs. Each tribe
speaks wishes over each other, as they call it. Prayers or last rites—that
would be a violation of the Third Law. No, We speak wishes.
We pool into the space that is reserved for us, a collection
of bodies. That's what these people are. Bodies. I swallow down the
bitterness, the need to protest, and take my place among them.
They are already turned to each other, speaking wishes,
murmurs of peace and hope and beauty.
May your sacrifice be felt. May your
ancestors breathe the air of the earth. May they remember you when they dance
.
A lump materializes in my throat. My eyes stick to the face
of a woman near me. There are fine lines around her eyes—kind eyes, decent
eyes. She reminds me of Neveah, only younger. There is a ribbon of grey in
her brown hair. But this is as old as she will get.
She catches hold of my gaze and steps toward me. A sad
smile stretches across her lips, reflects in unshed tears. She cups my face in
her hands. "Oh, Lily..." she whispers. "Of course you don't understand.
You don't remember."
My eyes search her face. It's difficult to get the words
out, and when I do, they are piecey, choked by my constricted throat. "Do
I know you?"
She shakes her head, her smile growing warmer. "I'm
one of your children," she says. "And my life has been better
because of it. I'm not afraid." She takes my arm and draws me toward the
edge of the bridge. We gaze over, into the water.