Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) (8 page)

8

For the next few days I’m completely beholden to my schedule, following my father to see as many townspeople as possible before he leaves. I have little time to think about Griffin, his so-called friendship, or the light touch of his fingertip.

Many of the townspeople bestow presents upon Apa. There will be an official goodbye ceremony, but people take the opportunity now to say something personal, wish him well, one-on-one. He receives a sheepskin water satchel from Neiall, the herder. A pair of bamboo shoes from Henricka, the shoe maker. A salted soft pretzel f
rom Marjorie, the baker.

Apa shares the pretzel with me on the way home, each of us wishing we had a flagon of Ama’s sweet lemonade to counteract the salt. We’re passing by the chemists’ corner of town, when Imogene, the head chemist, comes running out of her shop.

She flags us down, her white apron flicking behind her in the wind.

“Imogene,” my father says, “what is it?”

“Elected, I was hoping to catch you. We’re low on nirogene. Will you permit us to go into the hills to collect more element?”

“Of course, but why are your supplies low? You should have plenty.”

“We don’t know exactly.” Imogene’s brow furrows . “More than the usual number of people have come to see us for a bottle in the last month or so. It seems they are running out.”

My father turns to me. “Aloy, at the next town meeting make sure to ask people to regulate their usage. There’s only so much element we can harvest from the hills. People must conserve.”

I jot this point down with a charcoal pencil and a small notebook I’ve been keeping with me for exactly such reminders.

We bid farewell to Imogene and keep up our meetings on horseback. We near the animal-rescue area. I’m looking forward to seeing the animal sanctuary Griffin’s father mans, not only to see the exotic animals but for the off-chance we’ll run into Griffin too.

As we turn into the sanctuary, Maran, Griffin’s father, greets us at the gates.

“Nice to have you stop by, Elected,” he says. “Would you like to come inside, see the animals one last time before your departure?”

“I wouldn’t mind it at all!” my father agrees, his wind-burned cheeks rising into a smile. We dismount from the horses and follow Maran in through the wire fences.

“Shame they have to be cooped up,” I say, referring to the animals in the compound.

Maran, who’s walking in front of us as our guide, turns his head to look back at me. “May be a shame, but it’s a necessity. These are some of the last animals of their kind. We need to focus on breeding them.”

I nod absently, not really looking at Maran. I’m focused instead on the cage to our right. A furry rat with a bushy tail looks in our direction and gives us a “nit, nit, nit” before scampering up his fake tree.

“That,” says Maran, “is a squirrel. There used to be a plethora of them before the climate change, but they’ve all mostly died out. This is one of just three.”

I breathe out a gust of air, thinking it’s a good thing we’ve managed to save this specimen. It’s so small, it’s a wonder the squirrel survived at all.

“Ahh,” gestures Apa at a cage to our left. In it is a white bird with a long red flab of skin hanging from its neck, “I remember this one. Roster?” he asks.

“Close,” says Maran. “Rooster. This is a rare animal in our collection. Named for the word roost. Birds called ‘chickens’ used to congregate together to rest. And the male bird, the rooster, would take advantage of their gathering to impregnate the chickens. One rooster would father multiple babies from many chickens at once.”

“Ah, increasing the population. Something we understand, isn’t it, Maran,” my father jokes.

“Don’t we all wish it was so easy,” Maran says. There’s hardness in his voice.

Griffin’s mother, Maran’s first wife, hoped to have more children than just the one. However, she proved fruitless as miscarriage after miscarriage deformed her uterus and eventually killed her.

I remember my mother asking our cook, Dorine, to wrap up a basket of food for Maran. I’d clung to Ama’s skirts in the kitchen that day, watching her help wrap basket upon basket for our villagers.

“Are these all for Maran?” I’d asked, hunger overtaking my stomach as I looked at a crisp, red apple being placed into the folds of a cloth.

“No, Aloy,” my mother said. I remember her voice was soft like an old blanket. Comfortable, but worn out. “These baskets are for all the men who lost wives this week.”

There were eight baskets.

I shuddered at the memory and then looked back at the haughty rooster strutting through his cage.

“It’s not easy for him anymore, either,” I say, pointing to the rooster. “There aren’t any more chickens for him to mate with.”

“Correct,” says Maran, looking over my shoulder. “He’s the last one. Even his parents died out a few years ago.”

We walk along the dirt pathway of the sanctuary, my father and I pointing out the strange animals we haven’t seen since we were here the last time. There’s a parrot almost identical to the one I own. And a wolf. It looks like one of the dogs my parents keep with the horses, but this animal has grey fur and razor sharp teeth. It’s agitated at our passage, so we walk by quickly.

I can’t help but look for Griffin, thinking he’ll be here helping his father. Finally, when I don’t see him at all, I ask Maran.

“He’s not around today,” Maran says, avoiding my gaze. “Got a black eye play-fencing in one of the neighborhood matches. He’s at the doctor’s getting it looked at.”

This seems strange to me. I can picture Griffin getting cut from fencing but not receiving a black eye from it.

We wave goodbye to Maran and start on the path back to our house. Along the way, I can’t help peering into the windows of the doctor’s house to catch a glimpse of Griffin, but I see nothing behind the drawn shades.

Then, like time is proceeding faster than usual, my eighteenth birthday is upon us.

Three short days later, my parents and I arrive at the day we’ve been planning as long as I can remember. I almost want to get it over with, as waiting for this night has worried me for too long already. But then again, I’m hoping the day will go as slowly, so I can linger with my parents for as long as possible.

We’re sequestered together in an inner room of our house. We spend the entire night together with the rest of the village and our maids in repose. As is ritual, we are to have an evening devoid of distraction. No matter what else is happening in our country, tonight no one will come to us with their problems.

I lie with my head in my mother’s lap as she lightly circles her fingers through my hair. I cannot believe she is allowing this comforting exchange, but I figure she doesn’t have to worry about pretenses anymore. I know she’s often wanted to nurture me but held herself back, thinking it would make me more girlish than I already am. Now it’s her last chance to treat me like her daughter. My father sits across the room at a table, drinking a clear liquid. He looks less ferocious tonight than usual.

We’ve already gone through almost the entire list of questions I’d saved for this evening:

How do you know if an accused is truly guilty?

What do you do with the bodies of these people? Do they get buried along with our other townspeople or are they separated?

How do you apportion out the most highly demanded resources?

How are Vienne and I supposed to bear a child together?

My parents seem exhausted at my litany of questions, but still they answer each one in intricate detail, giving me everything they know. The only thing they don’t answer adequately is the question about bearing children. When I ask, Apa puts his hand to his mouth and Ama looks away. I don’t think they know the answer. “Vienne will think of something,” my mother says.

Then she passes me the key to our vault—the one holding the last of the past’s miraculous medicines. I take the ring and thread it onto a cord around my neck, pulling the key underneath my shirt.

“Aloy,” she says, “I know you have sympathy for the people, but do keep the medicine for your family.” It’s like she knows I’ve given one of the purple pills away. “We don’t horde the pills to be cruel. We do it because the Elected Accord states only the reigning family may take the cure. There’s a finite amount of pills left. If those run out and the Elected dies before a full term, anarchy will ensue. The Accords will no longer apply. We need the pills to last until the planet’s environment is strong once again and the Accords are not as necessary.” In all the years I’ve heard my parents’ advice, this is the first time Ama’s mentioned anything about a future that didn’t include the Accords. I just nod my head, too stunned to say a word.

My father clears his throat like he’s about to add something but is having a hard time with it.

“What, Apa?” I say, sitting up from my mother’s touch.

“Aloy. We... I... am sorry.” He stops and looks down at his hands. “This wasn’t ever supposed to be your burden.”

He’s never before apologized for forcing me into the Elected role. He’s always been steadfast to a fault. Even when I once asked him why he doesn’t even hear out the Technology Faction’s thoughts, my father merely scoffed and said, “Listening to idiocy is futile.” He looks down at the floor now, a rare moment of regret passing over his face.

“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “It wasn’t your choice. It was Evan’s.”

His name is like a bell ringing. It drowns out everything else in the room. Evan. The real Elected. The one who was supposed to take this post years ago. We all wonder where he is. If he’s still alive.

“Let’s not think about that right now, shall we?” my mother says. My father and I both look away, wanting to say more but knowing it’ll upset Ama. Neither of us wants to do that tonight. So there will be words left unsaid. I resign myself to that fact.

“Where will you go?” I ask. If I cannot talk about Evan, I will at least broach this next controversial topic.

My mother says, “What does it matter? We will never come back. And you will never come to find us.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But at least tell me what your plans are.”

“Aloy, no,” starts my mother again, but my father breaks in.

“Mid Country.”

What used to be the United States of America, is now divided into three countries. I picture the old United States map with the top and bottom shaved off. The coldest and hottest regions became uninhabitable long before the full eco-crisis struck. Then I picture the country with its outermost states peeled away—land closest to the oceans that got flooded. I imagine what’s left dissected into three small pieces.

East Country is what remains of the states Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, and the former capital, Washington, DC. Of the three countries dividing our continent, ours is the only one with land bordering water. Because of the Chesapeake Bay’s unique shape, we still have a small coast unmarred by oil spillage.

Then there’s Mid Country, encompassing part of Maryland and what used to be Virginia to Kansas. The bottom of their land is Arkansas and the top is Iowa. Our most tenacious and previously disputed border with Mid Country is a small mountain about seventeen miles away from the White House. The Appalachians make up the rest of the border.

Last, there’s West Country, which was almost unbearably hot even back when former leaders split up the country. That land consisted of Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming. I’m not sure if that country is even in existence anymore.

That’s it for the North American continent. What used to be Mexico and Canada are no more. The land remains, but it grew respectively too hot and too cold to sustain life comfortably.

I shake my head of these images and try to focus on the fact my parents are heading for the great unknown Mid Country. I turn suddenly to Apa, surprised he’s given me any hint of their plans at all.

“Are they expecting you?” I ask, incredulous. I always thought my mother and father would ride out quietly into the middle of nowhere, living on their own for the rest of their lives in the outskirts of East Country. I never thought they’d try to reach another country.

“Of course not,” says my father.

My mother sighs. “We will ride through the hills, let the horses go when we’re close to Mid, and walk the rest of the way in. Mid’s people won’t know who we are.”

No one in East Country has ever climbed the border hill to its peak. It’s only a mile up, so it’s easily scalable. But climbing the hill, even to sneak a glimpse at Mid Country, is punishable by death. It violates the Accords’ intent for isolation. So, our people stay firmly rooted at the foot of the hill on our side of the border. What my parents speak of now isn’t only risky, it signifies their abandonment of East Country’s laws.

“But what will you say?” I ask with alarm. “Won’t Mid question who you are?”

“We don’t know,” says Apa. “Maybe their society is different from ours. Maybe they don’t keep track of their people. Maybe there are so many people, we’ll just blend in.”

“And if we can’t blend in,” Ama continues, “we will say we’ve lost our memory because of the radiation poisoning. Don’t worry, Aloy. We won’t say anything about East Country. We will keep the isolation intact.”