Freda: Volume III in the New Eden series (10 page)

“I know everything seems lost now,” I say. “But there is hope.”

“Hope!” The gasping growl comes from the fallen man, still kneeling behind me. He gets slowly to his feet and returns to his companion’s side as he speaks. He’s done fighting, but he’s obviously not done resisting.

“What hope,” he continues, “can possibly be left? We all know the War destroyed the Earth. Nuclear bombs, like what you kept all this time, like what we saw yesterday. Ten thousand years of Radiation! You know what happens? You turn green and your skin melts right off your bones, but you don’t die. Not right away. You stay sick for days, while what flesh is left burns like you’re wrapped in hot coals!”

Nodding from the others around us, intensity in their faces. I see the source of their despair. They do not know what we know.

The man speaks again, talking directly to me. He holds his battered ribs, and his words are punctuated by short gasps of agony. “You ain’t the only one who talks to those white weirdos, you know. Those Subterrans. I talked to one. He said the only safe place in all the world was our valley. Our home! Everything else, dead for ten thousand years. Now that’s dead, too!”

“No,” I say, “you’re wrong.”

I look for Prophecies in the dirt, but the second man holds it now. I never noticed him picking it up.

I point at him. “That book you’re holding. It says so.”

“This?” The angry man snatches it from his companion’s hands. “This Southshaw trash?”

“It’s not trash,” I say, his words slicing through me.

“All Southshaw books are trash. Tell me,” he says, looking at the book as he turns it over in his powerful hands, “was it a Southshaw book that told Darius to attack Tawtrukk?”

“No!”

“Not what I heard,” he drawls. “Was it a Southshaw book that told Darius how to blow up the bomb?”

“No,” I whimper, but he’s right. Prophecies. It was Prophecies that led Darius to both of those things.

“I heard,” the man says, looking at me with cold hatred in his eyes, “that Darius learned everything from some god book that was supposed to tell the future. It told him to do those things.”

“No,” I say, but now so softly that I’m the only one that can hear my whisper.

“Let’s see what this book is called,” the man says, now talking loud in his confidence so all can hear. He makes a show of looking at the cover, smiles at me, mocking me with a fake expression of being impressed. “Fancy writing! Let’s see. Prophecies. Hmm. Fancy word, in fancy letters! Now, what can that mean?”

He looks at me, stares down Dane, glances at the book, looks back at me. That heartless hatred in his eyes is like a weight crushing me, making my exhausted legs weak.

“Prophecies,” he repeats. “You must know what that means, don’t you?” He doesn’t take his gaze from mine. “Tell us, won’t you?”

I draw a breath, feeling the weight of all the past six months crushing me down, feeling the emptiness of the eternal future stretching me out. Is this all worth it? In the end, what is the point of trying to carry on? What could I possibly say that would convince this man to join us? And if I could say it, what would I accomplish in the end?

“Cat got your tongue?”

I try to speak, but I don’t know what words to say. No matter what I say, this man will twist it and reshape it. He will refuse to understand because of his hatred for what Darius has done.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” he says loudly. “It means predictions of the future. It’s a god-book.” He stares at me as if trying to see into my thoughts, asking me silent questions.

“In fact,” he says slowly, “this is the very god-book that told Darius to attack Tawtrukk. This is the very god-book that told Darius how to blow up the bomb. Isn’t that right?”

He turns it over in his hands again as I feel tears coming to my eyes. Anger, frustration, pain, exhaustion, and guilt fill me up and take me over in a way I’ve never felt before. This man’s hatred of me for bad things other people have done... it tears me apart. It grinds me up. I feel myself coming to pieces in front of all these people. After all this, all that Dane and I tried to do against Darius... even after all that, they all think we’re just like him because we come from the same place.

“Well,” the man says softly, “no more.”

He reaches out and drops Prophecies into the crackling flame.

I gasp and leap forward to pull it from the fire, but Dane grabs me and holds me back.

“Let it go,” he says.

“But the maps,” I protest, struggling against his grip. “The directions.” Dane must have lost his mind. How will we find our way to the Iron Fleet, to Reunion Mountain? I have to rescue that book.

“We remember enough of it,” he says.

“That’s what Darius thought,” I grunt, trying to pull my arm free. I know it’s no good because he’s so much stronger than I am, and even if I managed to get free of him, I’d have to get through the Tawtrukker who watches. I’m quite certain he won’t let me get to that book.

“Freda,” Dane implores.

I pull at his hand, trying to pry his fingers free of my arm. His grip tightens, and his fingertips dig into my flesh through my thick coat, bruising me.

“Stop,” he commands. This is not a request. “It’s just a book.”

I stop struggling, watching the flames flare bright as they consume the pages. Just a book? No, it’s much more than that. It’s the last tangible piece of everything that Southshaw was to me, and I’m watching it being incinerated.

A commotion startles the back of the crowd, and in a moment Lupay and Patrick push through, followed by Micktuck, then my father and Lupay’s father, Ryne.

Patrick looks alert, his eyes taking everything in quickly. “What’s going on here?”

Dane releases me and puts his hands up. “Nothing to worry about. These gentlemen were just expressing their opinions about Southshaw traditions.”

I point and blurt out, “That man burned Prophecies!”

Lupay and Patrick both look to the fire, where the ashes still hold their book-like shape. Patrick looks momentarily confused, then suddenly stricken. He’s about to speak when Lupay says, “Good.”

Micktuck stands beside her, staring glassy-eyed at the fire. “Good? Yeh, prolly. But...” He pauses and sighs deep. “Deh been too much burnin’ of books, to my mind.” His short, round bulk is wrapped in a thick, rough coat, and he shakes his head slowly, his normal grin flattened to tight-gripped lips.

My father steps to the fire. “Prophecies? Destroyed?” He frowns at the ashes, then looks sharply at me, then at Dane. “Did you read it?”

I’m about to answer when Dane shakes his head and says, “No. We intended to, and we talked about it, but we didn’t actually read it.”

I don’t know why he would lie about this, now, to my father, but so much tension and emotion crackle in the air that I don’t protest. My father stares at me, the same question in his silent eyes, but I just stare back until he looks away.

“That’s done, then,” he says. “No one alive knows what it contained.”

The man that threw it in the fire squints at Dane and me, frowning. We lit our candle at his fire. We spent hours in the dark on the hillside huddled over the book. Dane even said
we remember enough of it
. He must be aware that we did read it and that Dane is lying.

Lupay’s father says, “It can’t ever mislead anyone again.”

So much emotion and confusion swirl around in my wild thoughts. Patrick stands between Lupay and her father. He followed Darius to attack Tawtrukk, struck one of the first blows of the war, chopping Ryne down while Lupay watched from the ridge... but something held him back, and he let Ryne live. Later he turned and fought against Darius. And now he and Lupay are inseparable.

My father and Dane face each other, eye to eye. When Dane was a child, his father confided in my father, talking about what Prophecies contained and what it could mean. My father knows something of the book, but how much? Does he believe that Dane didn’t read it? Isn’t he upset that the last vestige of our faith has been destroyed? I was chosen as one of the ten Verges for the Wifing in part because of my father’s involvement in worship and governance of Southshaw. Can he so easily watch our future burn?

The people around us are a jumble of Southshaw and Tawtrukk. Some of them may have met each other in battle. Some of them may have killed each other’s family members. Yet they stand here with only survival to think about, and winter blowing into the mountains.

I look across the lake to the eastern shore, where the other camp is packing up for their trek back to... wherever they think they hope to settle. Survival. Right now, it’s the only thing that matters. And it will be impossible if the people are torn in two.

Prophecies, the book, is gone. To me, it was the last tangible remnant of our traditions. To Tawtrukkers, it was the last symbol of the evil that destroyed their lives.

It needed to be destroyed. In public. By a Tawtrukker.

And we need to embrace its destruction if we are to have any hope of building a new life in a new place.

We remember enough of it.

I silently promise myself that I will remember every bit that I can. Some day I hope we can find the Iron Fleet, that we can find Reunion Mountain, that we can find the white stone crossed with black and learn about the other tribes. I feel in my heart that it’s my place to do those things, that by showing me the written word and then destroying it, God has selected me to help Dane fulfill his destiny as thirteenth Semper.

My father turns to Ryne. “We’ve got some work to do,” he says.

“West?” Ryne asks.

“West,” my father replies.

Micktuk gazes into the fire as if remembering the hundreds of books that filled his ramshackle little home. Then he looks at the sky, which has grayed from its crisp sunrise blue, and he squints. “West,” he grunts. Then he adds, “And right quick. Snow coming. Lots of it.”

CHAPTER 11

Once the word went out, the camp packed up with remarkable quickness. I shouldn’t have been surprised—what wasn’t worth carrying was left behind, and there wasn’t much left to pack up. Dane, Patrick, Lupay, and Tom will lead the way by following ancient, tattered Subterran maps streaked with stains and mold. Ryne and my father have taken it upon themselves to organize the people. Together, they will ration food (if we find any), coordinate gathering parties for fuel for our fires, and apportion supplies like blankets and cookware.

A few of us watch from the hillside as the long, mud-gray line of refugees snakes away from the lake, westward and downward. We will aim for the flat lands west of the mountains, along what Dane figures is “the westward highway.” Tom’s maps show cities and rivers, towns and vast empty areas. He says that before the War most of that area was lush farmland.

Across the lake, the other camp on the eastern shore has emptied, and the last stragglers are disappearing up into the mountains as the first heavy flakes of snow drift around us.

I stare after them sadly. “Where will they go?”

“Back up,” Micktuk says. He shrugs. “They think deh’s a nice spot back a few miles. Big lake, more trees, flat spots for houses.” He shakes his head. “But no good.”

“Idiots,” Lupay grumbles. “That coward from Upper, the skunk that didn’t want to fight Darius. He convinced them to go back. One by one, he lied to them. Said we’ll lead them into the Radiation. What a—”

Micktuk says, “This side of the mountain’s no good. No hunting. No farming. Lots of snow.”

“Didn’t you tell them?” I can’t believe so many people—three thousand or more, about half of the ones that made it this far—would willingly go higher into the mountains and hunker down just to wait to freeze or starve to death.

Lupay snorts a laugh. “Of course! But do they listen? No. They only listen to that coward. He doesn’t care about them. All he really wants is to be in charge, but he’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s going to get them all killed, but by the time they realize it, it’ll be too late. They’ll be snowed in within days.”

As if confirming her prediction, fat snowflakes swirl around her and congregate in her black hair. She stands next to a dark brown horse, the same one she rode into Upper when she whipped the people into battle. Was that only a week ago? The snowflakes land on the horse and melt, glistening wet on its smooth coat. Together they look heroic and regal. How could those people follow that man instead of Lupay?

“It’s so sad,” I mumble as the final remnants of the other camp disappear around an outcropping across the lake.

“Good riddance,” Lupay says.

Dane grunts agreement, but Micktuk sighs.

As if an unspoken signal was given, Lupay and Patrick climb up onto their horses, and the others heft their packs onto their shoulders. I reach down and gather mine, thinking of the essentials it contains. Dolls, a sewing kit, a hair brush, a mirror. The pots, candles, and other things I’d carried for my mother were quickly turned over to my father for redistribution to those with greater need. The pack feels almost empty. I pull the straps as tight as I can, but it still hangs loose and bounces against my back as we walk.

Lupay and Patrick gallop off to scout ahead and mark the road. The rest of us walk toward the tail of the long, snaking line of people, and it doesn’t take us long to catch up. First, we pass a small group of Subterrans, trudging along in gray Tawtrukk woolens. Their moon-white faces and wide, blue-green eyes look so strange and identical as we pass. They watch us with a distracted, weary curiosity, and I try to smile at them but none of them smiles back.

There are no more than two hundred Subterrans, and half of them are children. I wonder if they’re strong like Tom, if they’ll be able to survive long outside the protection of their burrow. Their granite faces—without wrinkles, without eyebrows—show no emotion beyond a vague sense of being lost. Without any understanding of the outside, they simply follow the others. Tom says hello to a few and shakes some hands, but he does not stay with them. His place, like Dane’s, is in the lead.

Our little group continues pressing toward the head of the slow, snaking line of refugees. Between the Subterrans and the slowest of the others lies a big gap, as if the Subterrans are purposely hanging back.

When we catch up to the straggler Tawtrukkers and Southshawans, I see why. I should have realized before. The strongest and healthiest will of course be near the front, able to move faster and carry more. The weakest and sick will fall to the rear. The Subterrans can’t keep up with the leaders, but they don’t want to mix in with the sick who struggle along before them.

These people—a mix of Tawtrukkers and Southshawans—break my heart. Some hobble forward in spurts, their injuries and wounds from the battles still seeping blood through their clothing. Others cough and retch, their faces red with fever and their eyes vacant. Here and there a very old person stoops and shuffles forward as if their feet have to keep moving or they’ll fall over.

Amid the groans and coughing rises an occasional plea for water or help, but Dane keeps me moving with gentle nudges and furtive whispers.
We can’t do any good here. These people are beyond help. Their families should be caring for them.

I don’t reply that it’s clear they have no families. These people have no one but each other. Even the Subterrans shun them. Instead, I follow Dane as he walks past, my heart breaking with each step.

After a while, the line thickens and instead of the sounds of sickness we hear the chatter of children, the murmur of conversation, and the clatter of carried possessions. The sounds build up into a symphony of hope and sorrow, of fear and courage, of loss and perseverance. It makes me smile, but guilt builds up inside for not helping the ones we just passed. I wish I could do something for the sick and injured, but I’m only one girl. Perhaps Dane is right. Those people are, maybe, beyond help.

We continue past a mix of people. Families walk in tight knots, their children begging to be carried, or running back and forth playing coyote-and-rabbits. Individual Tawtrukk women with makeshift sacks slung over their shoulders, some of them accompanied by children, with determination coloring their eyes. Lone Southshawan men with dark beards and troubled frowns who appear to be carrying the weight of the war they waged against the people they now walk beside. Groups of older children, not much younger than I, fueled by a constrained anger they do not fully understand.

When Judith and Gregory call out to us, we walk beside them for a while. Judith is still quiet, her thoughts distracting her frequently. She’s been that way ever since Linkan was murdered and Darius forced her to marry him. Dane has forgiven her, but I don’t think she’s yet forgiven herself. Perhaps in time, she will realize that if there’s any shame in being manipulated and bullied by Darius, then she shares that shame with hundreds of others, including me and Dane.

We press farther up the line until we’re halfway to the front.

A voice sings out in delighted surprise, and a tall, lithe figure dances out from the gray river of people. “Freda! Oh! Freda!”

Kitta is the only person in this whole morass of humanity that could look beautiful in the thick, woolen Tawtrukk coats and pants that nearly everyone wears. She bounds toward me with the grace of a doe, then wraps me in a tight hug before I can even say hello. Her arms feel spindly but strong through our thick clothing, and her face is full and pink with the winter’s cold.

She kisses me hard on the cheek. “Oh, Freda! I have missed you so! When that bomb exploded, I was so scared we’d lost you, but then I heard you had come back.” Without releasing me, she turns and shouts over her shoulder, “Garrett! Come see!”

Her sky-blue eyes sparkle at me from under her fur-lined hood. Where did she get a fur-lined hood?

Garrett arrives, and Kitta releases me. His sudden smile glows broad and genuine as he grabs my hand. “Freda! Oh, we’re so happy to see you! Kitta just wouldn’t stop talking about you. When did you get back?” He slips one arm around Kitta’s waist with an easy comfort that suggests he’s done it ten million times since they met. Which was just five days ago.

“Last night,” I answer.

Kitta glows. Not like she always did lying on a sunny rock or dancing in a warm rain or stringing daisies into a bracelet. Her fingers wind their way among Garrett’s, and she leans back against him, letting her head rest against his shoulder.

“We missed you,” Kitta says with another tight hug. I let the love in her embrace fold itself around me and squeeze me until the whole world disappears. For one brief moment, I almost believe that things could someday feel like they used to, before the bomb, before the war, before the wedding—

Kitta pulls back and gazes into my eyes. “So, First Wife, where are you leading us?” She glances at Dane, who has paused to wait patiently for our reunion to be done, then looks back to me. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, the same whisper she used to use when we were little girls scheming to wheedle extra dessert from her mother. “I overheard your father saying something about going west. Something about maps in Prophecies?”

She’s teasing, and playing a game with me. Perhaps my father said something about Prophecies containing maps. He said he’d never read it but that Linkan talked to him about its contents. But Kitta doesn’t understand the pain and anger that book represents, doesn’t understand that it’s no longer something to be spoken of lightly. I look at her and see the same delightful, charming, naïve girl I played with when I was little. The same girl I dreamed with about being selected in the Wifing.

It’s clear that she looks at me and sees me the same way. But I’ve changed, and she... She’s still so full of hope.

Dane says, quietly, “We don’t speak of that book anymore, Kitta.”

He gives me a pointed stare, but I don’t know what it means. Is he telling me that I need to explain it to her? Is he telling me it’s my fault we can’t speak of Prophecies anymore? Is he telling me that it’s a secret that just he and I share, something only for us? I can’t tell what he thinks anymore. He’s got some of his uncle in him, some of Baddock’s keen savvy. He’s changed, too. We both have.

Dane says, “A lot has happened in the last two days.” He doesn’t say the words out loud, but his tone is clear:
I forgive you this time, but don’t bring it up again.

Garrett’s smile falters. He’s never liked Dane, though I think there’s respect between them. Kitta, though, seems to brighten. If Dane had said that to me, I’d have felt like a bad puppy being yelled at for something I didn’t understand. Not Kitta.

“But... west, yes?”

At one time, Dane was easily overcome by her divine beauty and charm. His smile in response to her question is no more than polite. Warm, but polite.

“Yes. West. The Subterran maps say there used to be lush farmland there, before the War. We don’t really know what we’ll find, but... all the sources we have tell us that west is our only real option.”

Do not fear the westward highway.

Dane tosses me another sideways glance.
All the sources.
He’s still considering Prophecies in some way, even if he won’t admit it.

Dane touches my elbow with a brief caress. “I’m going to continue to the front. Why don’t you stay with Kitta and Garrett for a while? We’ve got a long way to go. Besides, you are needed more here, I think.”

There’s that ambiguous look again. What does he mean? That he doesn’t need me up front, or just that he thinks some time with my friends would be good for me?

“Yes, stay with us!” Kitta’s glee is so sincere and unfettered that whatever Dane meant doesn’t matter to me anymore. I want to stay with her.

“All right,” I say. “Just for a little while, though.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Kitta sings. “Dane is a big boy now. He can manage without you for a while.”

Dane laughs. “I’m not so sure, Kitta, but I’ll try.”

He squeezes my elbow once and looks into my eyes. He says quietly, with a sudden seriousness, “You’re needed more here, First Wife.” His gaze lingers for a moment, then he turns without a goodbye. Tom falls into step beside him as they double their pace toward the front now that I’m not slowing them down.

Again, I’m confused by his meaning, but before I can give it much thought, Garret pulls Kitta away, and she yanks my arm to bring me along.

“Come on,” Garrett says. “Everyone will be so glad to see you, Freda.”

I follow them into the river of people, which at this point is nearly all Southshawans. All around us are those who came north with Judith and Gregory. Mixed in at different points are the ones who escaped over the pass with us just yesterday. Others I recognize but can’t entirely remember. They stare at me as I pass, blank eyes that hold no judgment but also very little love.

I have to hurry to keep up with the long strides of Kitta and Garrett. In only a couple of minutes, we’ve passed two hundred Southshawan ghosts to meet up with Kitta’s family. They were among those who came north to Tawtrukk with Judith and Gregory.

Kitta’s mother leaps at me with a yelp of delight and rushes to enfold me like her daughter did a few minutes earlier. “Freda! Dear! Oh, I’ve been so worried about you since you left us in Tawtrukk. Will you walk with us a while?”