Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) (12 page)

13

It’s been days since my parents left. Days since I hit Griffin. Days since Vienne found the gun among Imogene’s things. It feels like an eternity.

We’ve been making wedding preparations non-stop for a week, and the town is about ready to celebrate. The bakers and cooks were hard at work, molding marzipan and sugar into elaborate three-dimensional confections. The divers cast nets into the Chesapeake Bay continuously for the past few days, bringing up scores of seafood delicacies like fresh crab and trout—indulgences we don’t usually afford ourselves as a nation. There haven’t been any assassination attempts th
is week. And, no weapons found. People are busy getting ready for the celebration, migrating to the city center on their nirogene-shined bikes, camping out on the Ellipse in wait.

With all of the country’s children close together, people are even going out of their way to teach extra lessons. Our education system consists of sharing knowledge. Everyone is a teacher. People sign up to show a group of children their trade, whether it be chemistry, mining, or planting. Around age twelve, children are expected to choose one line of work and study as an apprentice, so it’s the younger kids who receive the benefit of the varied classes. These sessions are happening more often than usual this week.

For my part of the wedding preparations, I immerse myself in our few orchards, picking lemons like they’re going out of season. I’m making vats upon vats of lemonade, my mother’s recipe. From up in one of the gnarled lemon trees, I stop my picking for a moment to look over the horizon. The sun is setting a hot pink against the blue sky, turning everything a confectionery shade of purple. It’s gorgeous, or at least I’d let myself think it was if I didn’t know the stunning colors were indications of pollution. I still stare at the sky, letting the last rays of sun hit my upturned face. I don’t look down until I hear voices below me. In the pasture, I see Griffin surrounded by a small group of children. I peer down from my enclosed spot in the tree, watching without being seen.

“What kind of bird is that?” asks one of the kids.

“A hawk,” says Griffin. “You want to see its wings extended?”

“Yes!” come the responses of several younger children who cluster around Griffin’s out-of-the-ordinary bird.

“Do you always get to play with animals?” asks one girl.

“Yep, I do. I’m really lucky to know about all kinds of animals. Long ago, people used to call it being a veterinarian.”

A five-year-old pulls on Griffin’s pants leg and looks up at him with big eyes. “I have a pet animal at home too. A cockroach!”

I grimace. Many kids keep roaches because they’re hearty and plentiful. They’re some of the only animals that survived after the eco-crisis. They could live through anything.

“Would you like to hold the bird?” Griffin asks the boy. The child’s head bobs up and down as Griffin places the tame hawk’s feet upon the boy’s shoulder.

“Wow!” say the other children in unison. “Can we? Can we have a turn? Please!”

My arms are weary from all of the grating, squeezing, and picking I’ve done this week, but I hold tight to the tree branch anyway, continuing to watch Griffin’s impromptu class with earnestness.

“Have you decided what you want to do when you grow up?” he asks one of the girls sitting cross-legged around his ankles.

“Have babies,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Ah, I see,” Griffin says, smiling down at her. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make a great mother.”

“I want to be an ama too!” shouts one of the youngest boys.

“You can’t be a mommy, stupid!” the girl sneers back.

I crinkle my nose, wondering how Griffin will deal with this awkward tangent.

“You want to know something?” Griffin asks, his voice low and controlled. “I lost my mother when I was really young. My father served as both my ama and apa.”

“But I want to do the most important job,” the boy cries. “I want to make more babies so our species won’t die out.”

I shudder, knowing this young boy is parroting the words of some other grown-up. I hate that our country’s children are burdened with problems I can’t fix.

“You can still help make them,” Griffin says.

“How can the boys make babies?” asks the girl again, her hip stuck out impertinently.

“I don’t know, but you girls will learn when you’re older, all right? Can we get back to the animals, please? This hawk wants to eat.” The kids spring up again, each vying to see the hawk devour its meal. “Who wants to let it eat beetles out of their hand?”

The issue of reproduction is lost amongst the squeals of the children, as both girls and boys alike clamor to feel the hawk’s beak pecking carefully against their palms.

I watch for a little while, suspended in the tree, not wanting to give away the fact I’ve been here this whole time. Finally, as the sun descends under the horizon, parents come to collect their children.

“Want me to walk you home?” Griffin asks the last boy left.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitating. The five-year-old who has a cockroach for a pet slides his small hand into Griffin’s. The hawk is on Griffin’s right shoulder, and the boy is fastened to Griffin’s left.

“The big wedding is tomorrow,” says the boy.

Griffin looks up at the sky. His face is pointed away from me, but I can’t help squinting to try and catch his expression anyway. I’m desperate to know what he really thinks about Vienne’s and my wedding. And who he’s more upset is getting married, me or Vienne. “I know,” he says.

“Everyone’s going. You are, too, right?”

I hold my breath up in the tree, listening for the response.

“Of course.”

“I can’t wait to see the Madame Elected! She’s the most perfect girl in the whole world. I’ll marry a girl like that someday.”

The boy’s infatuation with Vienne is to be expected. I’ve never seen my people throw themselves into something or someone as fully as they’ve done with her.

“She is wonderful,” Griffin says. “But, there are other perfect girls too.”

I stay up in the tree for a full ten minutes after Griffin and the boy are far enough away they won’t have a chance of seeing me descend. Does he mean me? Or was he just talking in generalities about the boy’s future marriage prospects. Or does Griffin have another woman he thinks is perfect?

I try not to think about it for the rest of the evening. I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling, the blankets pulled up tight under my chin. This is my last night without a wife. I think it’ll take me hours to fall asleep, but instead, after a few minutes torturing myself yet again with Griffin’s words, I do sleep.

Much later when I crack one eye to guess the time, golden sunlight is streaming through my windows. It is an auspicious day for a wedding. Tomlin knocks once at my door as if he could somehow tell I’d just woken.

“Ready for all the festivities?” A wide smile is spread across his face.

“It’ll be a glorious day for our people.” I don’t say anything about it being a glorious day for me.

“Certainly. Now let’s get you ready and into the customary garb.”

I’m carted off behind Tomlin and a squad of four handlers who will whip my appearance into shape for the wedding.

After stepping out of a steamy bath, which I’m at least allowed to administer myself, they set a goose egg on a piece of toast in my lap and start on my hair. I devour the food, feeling famished from the long hours picking lemons this past week and hardly notice their work on my head... until they present a mirror in front of me.

“My hair is dark brown!” I say, surprised.

“Indeed,” says Tomlin, bemused along with me.

“We’re making you dark, and Vienne will be light,” says one stylist. “Like yin and yang. Don’t worry, it’s not permanent. It’s just for the ceremony.”

They continue to make me darker throughout the day. A dark paint is brushed onto my nails, with red swirls painted on top of it. The same red swirls are painted on my hands and temples with henna. I eye myself in the mirror, sizing up my face. Yes, they’re making me the customary opposite of my mate, but are they making me handsome? If one looked beyond my coarsely chopped hair, I do have some depth to my face—high cheekbones and bright eyes, but I don’t think I look beautiful by any means.

I wonder for a moment what preparations are being enacted on Vienne—if they will change her perfect hair or her already perfect skin. Thinking of her draws nervous shivers down my spine.

The handlers dress me in the outer robes for the wedding. They wrap me in an elaborate brown linen shift, embroidered with the same red swirls covering my fingernails. They lace up long boots over woolen socks that ride up to my calves. Even with the sun shining, it’s still cold outside, and they are taking all precautions to ensure I’ll be warm. I wonder how much they’ll cover up Vienne or if they’ll keep her cold just to be able to dress her in a traditional wedding gown.

I don’t have long to find out. When I’m finished, my team marches out behind me to the pastures near the north side of town, where the first part of the wedding ritual will take place. I’m hidden behind a white linen fabric, hung high so you can see the sun shining through it and only make out my silhouette from the one side. Townspeople gather on either side of the pasture with ample room to see the festivities. Vienne is already there, behind another white screen, but on the opposite side of the field.

They’ll whisk away the screens, and then we’ll walk toward each other alone. Tomlin told me that in weddings of the past, women were walked down aisles and ‘given away’ by their parents. For many of us, our parents are no longer alive when we turn eighteen. That ritual doesn’t make sense for us anymore. Yes, our parents are important to us. They even have a say in our marriages, but the matches concocted at the annual dances are only finalized if the young man and woman agree. There is no one giving away our brides and grooms anymore. We stand on our own.

I think of free will as I stare ahead of me, trying to see through my white screen and past Vienne’s for even one precursory glimpse. The idea of free will has always been a mystery to me. I look forward to partaking of it someday, but for me, there’s only destiny, family, honor, and duty. It’s duty calling me to get married today, not love. My parents may not be here, but they’ll be figuratively walking next to me all the way across the pasture, ensuring that I fulfill my obligations.

I shake off the feeling. When I meet Vienne, I don’t want to view our marriage as a chain around my ankle.

But at the same time, my eyes scan the crowd, searching for the one face I long to see. Griffin’s kept a respectful distance from me all week—staying near but not close enough to talk. We were never alone, and he didn’t make a specific attempt to seek me out. I don’t spot him now.

I force my lips into a big smile even though I feel queasy inside. The people, at least, need to see my resolve in the matter of my wedding.

After thunderous applause from the townspeople on both sides, the curtains in front of me and Vienne are finally lifted. Mine swirls up in the wind as soon as they untether it. I glance around, trying to see Vienne, but the fabric ripples in the gusts of air and flies in front of my face. I push the linen off with one hand, stepping around it.

At once there is an
aaahhh
from the townspeople as they see the pair of us. Me with my newly darkened image and Vienne with her... her... I squint into the sunlight in front of me to see.

She is the embodiment of pure white. As they’ve turned me darker, they’ve somehow managed to make Vienne lighter. Her hair is the color of the inside of an almond, sleek and long over her back. It whisks down like a froth of egg white on top of lemon meringue pie. It’s tied back at the top with a line of pink roses across her forehead, just like the first day I met her.

And her robes. Can they really even be called robes? They billow around her in sheaths of many layers. The bottom layer is a pale yellow. The next a pastel pink. And the topmost layer is translucent white, so thin and gossamer it reminds me of a butterfly’s wing. Each layer is delicately thin, as I can almost make out her precise figure under the swaths of fabric. I see her long legs walking steadily toward me.

The top of her robes are gathered above her breasts in a tight knot, one I know is a ritual for us to untie later when we’re alone in bed. I swallow hard at the thought, not sure yet how I will handle that particular call to action.

Vienne holds a small woven basket in her hands, as do I. We make our way toward each other slowly, and the pasture feels long. I sense thousands of eyes on me, and I instinctively stand up straighter. When Vienne and I are the customary few inches away from each other, I reach for Vienne’s basket, and she hands it to me with a smile. This is the first step. The mutual exchange of seeds. She takes my basket from me, and we bend down onto the white sheet that is laid on the pasture floor. Vienne eyes the red embroidery on my brown robes and fingers it with her thumb appreciatively.

“They made you look quite handsome,” she says.

At once, I wish I’d complimented her first—not the other way around. “And you...,” I say, breathless. “It’s beyond words. You are... an angel.”

Vienne smiles and takes my hand in hers. With her other hand she pulls a small, pink rose from behind her left ear, brushes it across her lips, and places it in the lapel of my robes. I nod thanks to her, and then we get back to the task at hand.

I’m to plant the seeds from her basket, and she mine. Together they signify the joining of our lives and the hope for a fruitful marriage. Tomorrow East Country planters will fill out the rest of the open pasture with more of the same seeds. They’ll water the crop laboriously, watching for shifts in the moon and tide to make sure the land is sufficiently irrigated.

Vienne stands first, as I lay the last handful of dirt on top of the seeds I’ve just planted. Then I brush my hands along the sheet, ensuring not a single seed is wasted and rise as well. We clasp hands again and give our townspeople the first greeting as man and wife.

We bow to each other and then, back to back, we face our countrymen and say at the same time, “A new day to you all!” There’s a mighty cheer that erupts from our people, and then, as custom dictates, they rush toward us, carefully avoiding the newly planted seeds. We let them come. I’ve already told the guards to stand aside, even though they argued against it. Considering the attempts against my life, it would be prudent to abandon the ritual mass embrace, but that would grant the assassin a hold over us. I can’t allow my people to think we’re manipulated or scared of the attacker. Instead, my guards hover nearby, eyeing everyone with hawk-like focus.