Shymers (3 page)

* * *

I wake to find the new home we’ve been hiding in is still fairly dark and silent, except for the usual sounds of the forest. Looking across the room for my mother, I discover her makeshift bed on the ground to be empty. I sit tall, taking in the skeletal remains of the house with panic.

In the week since Taylor’s family left, I have grown even more concerned about my mother and the unknown thing that seems to be upsetting her. She still refuses to bring me along to the market, no matter how much I beg. I know the trips are necessary, but she has been gone for longer periods during the day and she often returns with her eyes dark and her mouth tight. She looks exhausted all the time, no matter how much sleep she gets at night.

Things have been different between the two of us in general. We don’t have much to say. Other than the morning of my birthday, I haven’t seen my mother smile in weeks. I can’t find a reason to, either. Nothing is the same without Taylor.

Everything I see in the forest reminds me of my friend and all our adventures together, even though my mother took us away from the home we had shared with Taylor’s family. Memories of her linger like a ghost during the day, morphing into twisted dreams at night. I can’t stop wondering if her family is in danger. Does she think about me? Does she miss me and think about me every day, like I do her? What if she is dead now, like my father?

Knowing it won’t do any good to sit in bed all day and focus on my worries, I finally crawl from my blanket to prepare for the day. My foot catches on the square box filled with old world items that were passed down to my mother.

The box is one of the few things we brought with us when we fled the day Victor was taken away. I stop to peer inside, even though I know the contents by heart: a pink container that once held my grandmother’s jewelry and plays music when opened, a collection of paper books my grandmother was given in her youth, my grandfather’s black bow tie that he wore on their wedding day, a photograph of my parents from when they first me
t
,
and a pair of little white shoes my mother wore as an infant.

Some of the books are short with hand-drawn pictures in bright colors, created for very young children just learning to read, while some are thicker and filled with nothing but words, like the love story I know so well. My parents taught me how to read from these books. I know them each so well that I’ve craved something different for years. I want to get lost in other worlds and let my imagination travel beyond this life I know. My mother tried in the past to get me more books from the market, but most of those from the old world were destroyed during the riots.

My fingers brush past the books to reach for the musical box. I open the lid to hear the bright, sweet melody I have known for as long as I can remember. Setting it down beside me, my eyes closed, I think back to the stories of the old world my father used to tell. He claims they were all true: princesses marrying their princes, people flying through the air on planes to visit other large cities with their families and large gatherings for the smallest of reasons, from town celebrations and birthdays to weddings and funerals.

I long for a life in the old world. From what I know, things weren’t necessarily simpler, but people were certainly happier. Will I ever know a life beyond this forest? I want to fall in love, maybe even someday have children. When I’m old enough to survive on my own, will my mother let me leave the Free Lands and return to Society? My thoughts stop abruptly with the memory of Taylor’s words
.
Whatever is going on in Society, our parents are doing everything they can to protect us from it.

Frustrated by the future I may never know, I shut the lid of the container and return it to the larger box. My foot pushes the box back out of the way
.
After slipping into one of the colorful dresses my mother brought back from the market, I collect a few eggs from the wild birds that roost near the rainbow trees. While the eggs cook over the fire, I squeeze the juice of a pineapple into my tin cup. Once I finish eating and cleaning up, I head down to the nearest creek for my morning bath with a towel over my shoulder.

Visiting the creek is an especially painful reminder of the day Taylor left. My mind refuses to let go of the visions of her mother running at us with her worried expression and Taylor hugging me goodbye as we cried. The empty feeling that took over as I watched my only friend run away from me has never left.

Today is no different, especially since it is already sweltering hot just as it was on that fateful day. The forest is alive with the usual gathering of different small animals scampering around me. Although I can’t always see them, I can hear them rustling through the bushes. Somehow they always know to keep their distance from me.

My foot skims past the surface of the warm water when I see the flash of something off to my side. With a sickening feeling, I realize the movement came from higher off the ground—the same level as a human would be. I grab my sundress and slip it over my head before hiding behind the nearest shrubbery.

Peering between the leaves, I discover a pair of soldiers wandering alongside the creek. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from yelling in surprise. Fearing I am about to be discovered, my heart hammers wildly in my chest. Why are there soldiers here? They never travel this far from the border and I’ve never seen any so close.

One of the soldiers, a woman maybe the same height as I am, has a lean build and pale skin that almost glows under the veil of her light-colored hair. Her bright blue eyes dart around, cautious. The other soldier, a man, is quite a bit taller and larger all around. His body is thick with muscles, making the smaller woman look more like a child. His dark hair sticks out from underneath a funny white hat that Taylor had once called
a
bere
t
. Although his eyes aren’t visible from where I hide, his skin is a striking dark brown color.

The two soldiers engage in conversation, their voices low. Their hands hold long, sleek pieces of metal I know to b
e
gun
s
. One time when spying on the soldiers guarding the wall, Taylor had explained to me what these weapons were. They are what killed most of the people in the riots. I sometimes wonder if my father was killed by a gun, but I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer. My mother refuses to talk about it. I don’t even know if she was there with him when it happened, or if he died all alone.

I continue to watch the twosome, amazed by the sight of any strangers in general. They walk somewhat slowly, making a narrow path through the dense forest as they go. With my neck strained, I watch them for as long as possible. Even after they’re gone from my line of vision, I hide longer than necessary to be sure they aren’t coming back. Once I’m sure it’s safe, I sprint back to our home.

* * *

The rest of the day, I anxiously wait for the arrival of my mother. When she finally rushes in a bit earlier than usual, she nearly stumbles over her own feet at the doorway. She bends in half, pulling her breath in through gulps. Sweat covers her forehead and her eyes dart around our house. I realize with a start that she looks just like Sahara did the day she took Taylor away.

I spring forward. “What’s going on? Why have you been running? I saw soldiers by the creek today. If you know what’s going on, you need to tell me and quit treating me like a young child!”

It isn’t until she grasps my shoulders and yells my name that I stop t
o
reall
y
look at her. Her dark blond hair clings to her wet face, making the large shadows under her once-bright eyes seem even darker. The lines around her lips seem deeper and longer, and her skin has turned to an unflattering ashen color. I hardly recognize her anymore as being the mother I’ve known all my life.

She looks down on me with an unmistakable urgency as her hands slide down my arms and her fingers settle around mine. She squeezes. “Listen to me, Olive. There isn’t much time to explain, but I need you to know that everything is going to be okay.”

Until Taylor’s family disappeared, I had never seen my mother anything but strong, even after my father’s death. Back then she always had a bright smile on her face, even when it was obvious something was bothering her. But in this moment, she appears to be on the verge of tears.

“What’
s
wron
g
?” I beg. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Remember everything I taught you, Olive. Remember all that you learned about the old world, and everything that I have told you about Society. You are a strong, brave young woman and I know you can survive anything.”

“You’re scaring me,” I say, my voice breaking.

“Whatever happens, Olive, you cannot worry about me.” Her lips contort into a smile, although her words become more hurried. “I promise you will make it through this, Olive, but only if you run. You have to promise me you wil
l
ru
n
.”

“Run from what? I don’t understand! What—”

My voice is suddenly drowned out by the sound of a loud, chopping motor coming from just outside our home. Any other time when hearing a helicopter, we are to hide until it goes away. But this one sounds as if it’s going to land right on top of us. It’s much too close.

We’ve been discovered.

We both turn to where the large machines hover above the ground outside. My mother looks to me again, her hair blowing around her face in the gust of strong winds. “Olive!” she yells. “Remember what I said! You have to run!”

“Run where?” I yell back. “I don’t understand!”

All at once, a flood of soldiers come bursting into our home.

3 – I Don’t Really Know What I Am

I glance down the brightly lit hallway and take small, cautious strides so as not to stand out any more. The weight of a thousand stares already burns holes into the back of my head. Upon first arriving, I had tried smiling or giving a greeting to those who passed me by, but they had either laughed or stared back at me blankly. So I decided to keep to myself. Frigid air blasts down on me each time I pass under little metal slots in the ceiling, and an overwhelming smell of something vile fills my nostrils, making me want to hold my nose.

Before sending me into the school office this morning, the soldiers handed me an electronic gadget without any direction of what I am to do with it. The square is unlike anything you would find in the forest, smooth and light. Clutching it in my hand now, the metal feels cool against my skin.

Flurries of whispers float around me, just loud enough so I can catch some of the words being said, none of which are kind and none of which I can truly understand. I continue to walk straight ahead, avoiding eye contact and only looking to the classroom doors for the number 230, where I was told my first lesson will be.

I know of schools like this where boys and girls of all ages attend different lessons in the same building, separated into groups based on their maturity level. My parents went to one when they were young. Once it had even been a dream of mine to go to one. Now that I feel the unwelcome stares and hear their hurtful words, I wish I was anywhere but here. I didn’t expect there would be so many people. I didn’t expect to be treated like an outsider.

Although I haven’t been here long, I think I may finally understand why my parents tried to keep me away from this cruel reality, these judging eyes and whispers. Everyone here is a stranger. How can they dislike me when they don’t even know me? Something about this place feels jaded and twisted, more like one of the scary stories my father used to tell.

All at once, a hand tugs at the back of my shirt. I turn on my heels with my arm out, expecting some kind of physical strike or insult to be thrown in my face. Instead, I am greeted with a pair of warm brown eyes.

“You must be the new Shymer everyone is talking about,” a girl in a plain gray frock says to me. Auburn hair hangs in waves around her smooth, light-brown face, and two little wisps at her temple are held back with a bright pink ribbon. Her flawless cheekbones are high, and her big eyes look back at me from underneath dark eyebrows. A sliver of white teeth is visible behind her heart-shaped lips as she smiles up at me. From her small size I would guess her to be fourteen, possibly fifteen. She is striking, but not in a way that makes you gasp at first sight.

Lowering my arm, I open my mouth to answer before shutting it again. The truth is, I don’t really kno
w
wha
t
I am. Not in this world, anyway. I don’t even know what
a
Shyme
r
is. Do I ask this girl what she is talking about? My stomach drops with the uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” she says with a shrug. “I’m one, too. Most of the kids here are Futures, but ther
e
ar
e
other Shymers. I’ll introduce you to them.”

My eyes sweep the hallway to find a group of older girls gathered next to door number 230—exactly where I need to be. I had been so consumed with the whispers and stares that I had walked right past it. Collectively, the girls are gorgeous, a sea of flowing blond hair and bright blue eyes surrounded by some kind of heavy coloring on their eyelids. Each of them wears a colorful top that dips low at the neckline, revealing a hint of their well-tanned chests, paired with a vibrant skirt that falls just short of their knees. They stare back at me with cruel eyes, their lips tightly curled into mocking smirks.