I Am Margaret (22 page)

Crack.

The sky was drenched in gold stars. Immediately, but avoiding sudden movements, I bent and palmed the little ball, sliding it up my skirt and into my pocket. We all stared and waited, but there were no more fireworks. Sarah began to clap again, in applause this time, and I joined in. Soon everyone was applauding our mysterious entertainer.

Though I bet I knew just who it was. Who, plural. Bane could’ve used an extra length of fuse, but most likely a little lion had lit those fireworks. They’d better both be legging it for all they were worth. From the continued shouting and dashing around, the guards would be out looking for them soon enough.

We were herded back to our dorm then. Our battlement time had hardly started, but the guards were a wee bit excited and were busy securing everything that could be secured, including us.

“
Three fireworks,” snorted Jane. “
Scary
.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t even spot the person launching them, by the look of things,” I couldn’t help pointing out. “And three rounds from a mortar would’ve been another matter, don’t you think?”

“The Resistance don’t care about us,” said Jane flatly. “No one cares about us.”

Hard to argue with that. I wanted to win a certain competition for that very reason.

I went to sit beside Jon.

“So?” he asked, pretending to nibble my ear.

“So, what?”

“
So
, what hit the ground behind you just before the third firework?”

“You and your ears,” I murmured, sticking my nose in his hair for safety. “We can have a making out session later and I’ll open it, but not immediately, it might look suspicious.”

“Suspicious is what the Major will be if he knows what day it is.”

“
I don’t know. Eighty reAssignees, or thereabouts? If he hasn’t normally got one or two, um,
like us
, in here I’d be very surprised, but they haven’t been looking.”

“True.” Jon gave up nuzzling my ear—good, his nose was freezing. “When are you going to start the book?”

“Soon. But I need to decide what to write first. And how to go about it.”

“
How?”

“
It has to be
typewritten
. So I’ve either got to send it to Bane to type up as we go along or type it myself. And the more I think about it, the more certain I am that the only way I’ll have a hundred thousand words—or some acceptable novel length—by the end of May is if I can type it. Which is problematic.”

Jon was kind enough not to laugh at this gross understatement.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked seriously.

“I haven’t quite decided.”

Understatement upon understatement. I was really quite,
quite
certain I couldn’t write a hundred thousand words by hand before the deadline. With all the time we spent exercising each day, I wasn’t sure it was even physically possible. And a hundred thousand words carefully chosen to move the hearts and minds of the world? So I had to type it. But
how
?

A bleak little voice informed me more and more forcefully that submitting the short story was a waste of time, that I’d risked getting Sue in trouble for nothing, that I couldn’t possibly win and I most certainly couldn’t have an entire novel ready by the end of May. I suppressed the voice as best I could, and sought advice elsewhere.
Lord, any suggestions?

Worrying about that little problem was almost enough to distract me from the intriguing package in my pocket. Almost, but not quite. It fitted in my palm and was soft to the touch. I squeezed it gently, feeling the contours of something in the middle of the softness. A round disc? My breath caught in my throat and slowly, reverently, I took my hand from my pocket. Could it be?

A lot of planning and effort had certainly gone into its delivery. Two hundred meters was a long way, but Bane had a catapult that had more in common with a crossbow than a boy’s toy. It would do the job. Probably had.

I went to sit at the table and write part six of the Fellest Ewe’s diary, which was proving a hit with pretty much everyone in the dorm. Even Jane took out her ear phones to listen. Jon ran his fingers suggestively down my arm now and then, clearly curious, but I ignored the invitation for some time.

Eventually I took my notebook back to my chest and pocketed the scissors from my sewing kit, along with a flashlight. Jon and I then withdrew into the privacy of his bunk with the usual accompaniment of giggling.

“Really, I can’t think of anything less appropriate!” I couldn’t help muttering, kneeling on the mattress beside Jon.

“Huh?”

“I think I know what’s in here, that’s all.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

I switched the flashlight on, since I didn’t want to leave even the tiniest crack in the curtain today. Being caught writing in orange juice when you were supposed to be making out would pale into insignificance beside this. I gave Jon the flashlight and tackled the wrappings with the scissors.

Tape, thick packing paper, almost card, then cotton stuffing. In the center was a large pebble—to provide weight?—and a tiny satin pouch, the drawstrings tied, but a tiny slip of paper sticking out. I drew out the slip and tilted it to catch the light.

It’s the real deal, a little lion told me so.

I read it softly to Jon, who looked bemused.

“Heh?”

I ran my fingers over the disc shape, now unmistakable through the single layer of cloth. A circular wafer. My chest was tight. Dear Bane. Dear, dear Bane.

I placed the pouch in Jon’s hands, so he could feel what

I could feel—in the faint light of the flashlight I saw his face freeze. He got up onto his knees, cupping the pouch reverently in one hand.

“Nice Easter gift from my unbelieving fiancé, eh?” I murmured.

“Just slightly. Though I wonder how bored that little lion is getting.”

I winced. Bane and Father Mark, bored together—not entirely reassuring. I took the pouch and set it on the center of the pillow. Hard to complain about this, though.

“Let’s say what suitable prayers we can remember first,” I suggested. Jon nodded, so I switched off the flashlight, closed my eyes and sought to still my mind.

…Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres

sub tectum meum, sed tantum dic

verbo, et sanabitur anima mea.

…
Lord, I am not worthy that you should

enter under my roof, but only say the

word and my soul shall be healed.

Well, I was as ready as I was going to get. I turned the flashlight back on and glanced at Jon. He must’ve heard me move, because after a moment he said, “Okay?”

I picked up the pouch.

“Are you a Minister of Holy Communion, by any chance?”

He shook his head.

“You do it,” he murmured. “I can’t see what I’m doing.”

That usually made surprisingly little difference to what he could or couldn’t do, but in this case I agreed with him. This was all informal enough as it was. Not that I thought Our Lord minded being catapulted over a wall to us in the circumstances, and Father Mark must’ve thought the same, but the least we could do was not get bits of Him
all over
the bed!

I untied the pouch and tipped it carefully over my hand.
I’m sorry to have to get my unconsecrated mitts all over you, Lord, but I can’t see how else to do this…

A single Host slid out—oh, Bane didn’t know Jon was here. I’d hadn’t dared mention it in my last letter.

“Can you hold your hands out? I’m going to have to break it.”

Jon complied and I did so as reverently as I could, though to be honest, there’s only so much reverence you can achieve when snapping something in half. Well, it’s the attitude of heart that really counts. Placing half on Jon’s tongue and the other half on my own, I closed my eyes and embraced interior silence.
I’ve missed you, Lord…

When I finally opened my eyes I could see water gleaming at the corners of Jon’s eyes in the light of the flashlight. I drew my sleeve across my own cheeks and watched as he licked his cupped hands clean, clearly having some reverence issues of his own.

When he finally lowered his hands and wiped them on the blanket I moved to sit on his clothes’ chest, resting my head against the cinder block wall. Jon seated himself on the bunk and leaned against the wall as well.

“That’s better,” he sighed.

Was it just. Strength had been slowly draining out of me and I hadn’t even realized, until now, when it returned full force. It
wasn’t
impossible to write a novel in two months, not if the Lord supported the plan. And I knew what I had to tell Bane. I knew
exactly
what I had to tell Bane. But he wouldn’t be happy.

We stayed where we were for as long as we dared, then we put the curtain back up. That night I didn’t even cry. I didn’t manage to say the prayer, but I didn’t cry. Accepting my failure gracefully for once, I sank towards sleep with something like my old tranquillity.

“And God bless Bane and Father Mark,” whispered Jon, his arm tightening around me.

“God bless Bane and Father Mark,” I murmured, my arm slipping around Jon as around a rather large and muscular teddy bear.

The click of the dorm door opening and the hasty tramp of several pairs of feet jerked me awake. I’d barely raised my head when the curtain was yanked aside and three of the male guards looked in. Finchley, Watkins and Dwight. The perverted, the decent, and the devastatingly ordinary. Sally the nice night guard dithered behind them, looking anxious.

“Oh, hell! The Captain isn’t going to be happy,” snarled Finchley.

“What do you two think you’ve been doing?” demanded Dwight.

“
What does it
look
like we’ve been doing?” retorted Jon. “Do I need to get technical?”

Finchley and Dwight reached in, grabbed him, and dragged him out so roughly most of the blankets came too, with me tangled up in them. I fell to the ground with a bump.

“
Oh, be nice,” appealed Sally, “he’s
blind
, you know…”

“Yeah, yeah,” snorted Finchley, then yelped, “Hey!” as Jon got his feet under him and shook them both off, sending Dwight reeling across the room and Finchley staggering into the wall.

“Knock it off, lad, or we’ll shoot you and carry you out, understood?” Watkins no-nonsensely unsnapped his pistol holster.

Jon’s lip curled, but he must’ve heard the popper because he stood still and let the other two grab him again.

“You all right, Margo?” He’d heard me fall.

“Fine,” I gasped, still fighting with the blankets. “Where’re you taking him?”

“Where do all good little reAssignees go?” said Finchley, smiling nastily. Watkins shot him a look.

“Shut it, Finch.”

Dwight and Finchley began to lead Jon away. Watkins and Sally followed.

“
Jon!”
My whole body seemed to have been dipped in ice. I clawed my way out of the blankets as though possessed. This all-enveloping terror was more electric than paralyzing. “Jon… Leave him alone!” I looked around wildly—everyone was just standing there, why didn’t they
do
something! “Jon!
You can’t take him!”

“Want a bet?” smirked Finchley over his shoulder.

I went after them and Watkins drew his pistol.

“
Stop right there, missie, your boyfriend…”

I didn’t hear any more, because they were dragging Jon out the door—he’d heard the pistol clear leather and was fighting them again—something snapped and I went for Watkins like a wild thing. I moved faster than I’d ever moved in my life and I almost made it, my hands reaching out to knock the gun aside, to grab it… In that long frozen blur of motion, I saw the panic in his eyes. Then his hands tilted upwards and his finger whitened on the trigger…

Something smacked my chest, a black pipe seemed to drop over me and I fell down it, down into nothingness—the last thing I saw was Jon slamming Watkins to the ground in a way that would’ve had Father Mark suppressing a smile.

***+***

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