Unnaturals (15 page)

"So it
is
possible to survive outside of the cities. You must have lived here for years," Mel whispered.

The old woman cocked an eyebrow. Her eyes bored into Mel's, and even they were different from the eyes of other people, and not only because of how long they kept Mel's gaze. No, those were eyes that day by day had watched a different land, and a different sky.

"You're not alone. Let's get her," the old witch said. Mel hadn't even had the chance to ask for help—hadn't even decided
whether
she should ask for this stranger's help.

The old witch had taken Mel's hand and was already leading her back up to the trees. Her voice had been clear and bright and her grip was strong.

Mom was lying down beneath the tree where Mel had left her. Her eyes were closed and sweat glistened on her cheeks and eyelids. Her chest was rising and falling in a broken rhythm.

"Oh, the poor dear." The old witch issued a tsk-ing sound with her lips and tongue. Mel had heard it before, from Jerome. It meant disapproval. The witch put her gnarled hand on Mom's forehead. So beautiful. Mom's skin was so smooth and beautiful—and this gnarled hand was now scratching it, marring it, as if it would shove itself inside Mom's face and drink Mom's life away, just like witches did.

I don't trust her. I don't trust her at all
.

"Help me carry her down, girl."

There was a lake down there, where the water fell. The witch said that the narrow water strip that extended from the lake was called a river. It went far, far away, the witch said, to a larger river, which went to a lake so big that when you stood on the shore you could not see the other side.

The witch lived by the small river, under one of those big trees with needles. Her home looked like fallen tree trunks clumped together, with two tiny, glass-covered holes for windows and another hole with a swinging plank for a door. There were no streetlights and no sliding doors operated by a computer for the witch. Indeed, Mel saw no computerized station of any kind inside this semi-dark home.

There were two small rooms, one of which held a table and four chairs patched up from rough, uneven planks. The other room had two equally rough beds covered with what looked like something that had come off of a sheep, and another, smaller table with a single chair. The witch pulled one of the covers away and helped Mel lay Mom down, then started piling covers on top of her.

"We need to make her sweat," the witch said, then sat on the chair and started mixing something in a bowl that looked as if it was made from tree bark. Both the table and chair hobbled and creaked beneath her weight, and she didn't look heavy.

"But Mom was sweating before," Mel said. "She didn't like it."

"What one likes and what one needs are not necessarily one and the same," the witch said. The words were soft, almost sad. This softness must be the reason why Mel obeyed and gathered the sheep-like covers from the other bed.

"Sweating will break her fever," the witch said, still softly, while Mel piled layer after layer of covers. The witch's rough hands were holding a new piece of wood, grinding whatever was in the bowl with it. Her voice was pleasant and smooth. It was almost like music. If Mel couldn't have seen her, she'd have imagined a beautiful, young woman instead of this gnarled old monster.

"
Appearances can deceive,
" Eryn had once told her students. It had been in the days when sour, evil-looking Eryn had done her best to make Mel's life a living hell. Back then, the lesson hadn't seemed worth it.

"Give her this." The witch pressed the bowl into Mel's hands. "You washed your hands in the river as I told you? She's not as sick as she could be. This should keep the sickness at bay, for some time at least."

Sickness.
The bowl slipped from Mel's hands and hit the ground. The witch shook her head. Then, more swiftly than her crooked body and creaking bones would suggest, she bent and retrieved the bowl. It was almost full, only some of the powder had spilled onto the needles on the floor. The witch inserted her finger first into the bowl and then into Mom's mouth. Mom's eyelids flickered and she moaned like a little child who was having a bad dream.

"I'll go make food. And you—you get a grip on yourself, girl. If your hands continue shaking like this, you won't be able to help me, and I can't be doing everything by myself with a sick person in the house."

The witch walked away from the room, swinging the plank-door closed behind her.

Get a grip
.

There was a strange contraption leaning casually against the wall by the bed. Meliora of Lucasta, Doctor of Computers, People, and Nature, had never seen one in her life. Yet, she knew it. It was there in the children's fairytales and adults' wonderful experiences. It was in her heart right now, pulsing and thumping like the heart itself. At least, that was how it felt in her hands, when she gripped it and stood guard by her mother's bed.

Sickness didn't exist. Anything but sickness from young age didn't exist, and
that
looked and felt differently! Witches could cause sickness. Witches could lie to you, even eat you, whatever that meant.

"Ah." The witch's voice was still soft. She'd just opened the door again. "I see you have found the axe. Good. I will need you to chop some wood for me tomorrow. Or, judging by your unbounded energy, even tonight."

Meliora raised the axe higher.

"Stay away from us, witch."

"Or else?" The witch laughed, the sound as sweet and musical as anything that could come from a Lucastan musicstat. "Do you even know what the thing you're holding is, my sweet city girl?"

"Yes. I know what it is. And I am not
your sweet girl.
I am Meliora."

"Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, young lady. I am Stella."

"Stay away!"

"You intend to use the axe for killing," the witch said mildly. "Or perhaps you don't intend this per se, but it is what you might end up doing, anyway." Yet again, the witch kept Meliora's gaze for longer than anyone else ever had. Meliora, an unnatural, had to fight with herself in order to withstand this gaze. "Have you ever killed, Meliora?"

"I have."

Did she only imagine the flicker of surprise in the witch's eyes and the tiny, almost imperceptible step back?

Meliora was surprised, herself—surprised at the softness of her own voice that didn't feel soft at all.

"A year ago, I killed a medstat so that I wouldn't become a natural, and I killed a computer so that it would keep my secrets. Today, I killed another medstat. I'd brought it with me to take care of my mother and myself, and lightning hit it instead of hitting me. But I know what you're asking. You're asking if I have ever killed people. Old witch, do you really think it is that different?"

"Witch? I told you my name was Stella. But go on. You think you can do something—then
do
it."

"You think I can't? I swear it, witch, I can! You won't tell me she is sick! You won't lie to me that you're taking care of us, while all the while you make me work, and feed her, and make her fat so that you can eat her! I know how the story goes! But I won't let it happen!"

"Ah." Softness again. "Which story would that be? The witch in the gingerbread cottage? But my home is not so delicious, Meliora."

"I saw your furnace," Meliora whispered. "Out there in the other room." In Lucasta, fire and furnaces, like sickness, only existed in the feeds and wonderful experiences. Fire was a bad thing. It swallowed homes and made people leave before their time.

"You remember fairytales enough to recognize something you have never seen, and you want to fight a story. Interesting." The witch inclined her head. Mel was panting, the unfamiliar handle too big in her hands, the axe too heavy. Her heart was beating so fast that if there were a medstat in the room, it would have come running.

"I'll fight anything that would hurt her!"

"Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Didn't you think that killing would be easy?"

It must be. Had she not seen it—had she not done it—in the wonderful experiences? She'd been through war, and she'd been through famine—but no. Famine was different. Famine was where you left because of lack of food. And she hadn't truly done it. She didn't remember doing it. She only remembered pictures—a splash of color here and there, and some words, and the hint of an emotion that made you jerk your eyes open only to see the special wonderful experiences medstat hover above you with a needle.

With all her strength, Meliora sent the axe to the wall. It became lodged between two planks, quivering.

"Tea now," the witch said.

In the kitchen, she pressed a rough cup into Meliora's hand.

The witch was grinding something in a bowl again. Mel sat on a chair across from her and picked a second bowl and a grinder. She was faster than the witch. The contents of her bowl turned into smooth pulp while the witch's still looked like distinct leaves. The witch stuffed new leaves into Mel's bowl. A moment later, she had to do it again. And again.

The witch shoved the bowl away from Mel and took Mel's hands into hers. She reached out for a jar and sprinkled Mel's hands with powder. Mel looked at her hands. They were bleeding, but she hadn't felt any of it. The witch slapped her face. She didn't feel that, either. Then, slowly, finally, she did. She started crying, and cried until she thought she'd shed more water than the storm—until something inside her became dry and she thought she'd never have tears again.

This wasn't a fairytale or a wonderful experience. This was—Mel didn't even know what it was, but perhaps this old woman could help her navigate through it. The old woman lived here all alone, without a medstat, without the care that the Cities gave their residents. She knew how to take care of herself. Perhaps she knew even the secrets that the Cities never told.

"I told you I would kill you, and you urged me on. Why?" Mel's voice was hollow, the voice of a stranger.

The witch looked at her for a long time. Mel was starting to get used to this gaze, which wouldn't leave hers alone. "You poor child who stands on the edge of worlds," the woman said. "One day you will have to step one way or another."

"Who are you?"

"Is
evil old witch
not enough for you already?"

"You're not her."

"Oh? Who is she, then? She has a bigger furnace, perhaps. One that can actually fit a child—or a grown woman—in it. As it goes, mine only has space for small pieces of meat. And for bread."

"Meat. Animal pieces from the farms," Mel said in her stranger's voice. "You don't even have a cookingstat. You have to cook them yourself, like you make tea. How do you get them from the farms? Even in the Academy, we..." Her voice trailed away.

"I'll show you exactly how I get them."

"Thank you," Mel said. "And, you said that one day I'd have to step one way or the other, but I have already stepped, and you know it. You're just testing me, checking how much I know and how far I am willing to go. I am not the first city runaway you have seen, am I? You know us. You wait for us. And you look like the evil old witch, but appearances can deceive. I believe you're the One Who Shows the Way."

The witch—Stella—started laughing. "I suppose this is as apt a name as any."

"I'll tell you how far I will go, then—I'll go as far as it gets. As far as is needed." Mel glanced at the axe, now leaning against the kitchen wall. "But no farther than that."

***

Mel and the witch went to get meat when the next brightlights period came.

"It's called day," the witch said.

"We call it brightlights. Why use different words for the same thing?"

"Because it is not the same thing." The witch pushed the axe into Mel's hands again. Mel had just finished eating. "You seem fond of this. After we've gotten food, you'll use it according to its true purpose."

Meliora nodded. She would chop wood. She must pay Stella. Neither in Lucasta nor in the fairytales and wonderful experiences did you get clothes and food without giving something in return. Meliora would pay with work. She had money, but Stella wouldn't take it.

"What use is your little bit of plastic to me?" she laughed. She didn't have a bankstat here. So, a person could not do everything that the machines could do. Stella could cook and make tea and medicine for Mel's mom, but she couldn't take money from Mel's money card.

Mom was still lying in the bed. At least she'd opened her eyes once before Mel had left the room and smiled, recognizing her. Mel had given her soup and a piece of brown, lumpy bread from the witch, together with more powdered medicine and strange tea with grass and flowers in it.

The path of dirt wound among the trees. Mel wasn't as hot here as she'd been during yesterday's walk through the grass with Mom. The trees filtered the rays of the strong, non-brightlights sun, and they didn't sting as much as in the open. Mel's face had been tingling since yesterday. Stella said this was sunburn and that Mel should stop scratching it, and that it could be alleviated later with a paste.

Mel didn't know about a paste, but she certainly needed a bath. She kept thinking of this all the way.

Then, when she and the witch finally reached their destination, Meliora knew that no matter how much she bathed in her life from now on, she'd never, ever be clean again.

Out there at the end of the path, there was a pit. In the pit, there were two small animals. Not birds—if they had been birds, they could have spread their wings and flown away. No, those had four legs, like cats, dogs, or sheep. Mel knew them from the feeds and Doctor Eryn's lessons about farms.

"Here is what a rabbit used to look like," Doctor Eryn had said, "long ago, when there were still rabbits in the cities. This is what, if we grew a whole animal out of the rabbit cells we have preserved in our banks of animal cells and genes, the animal would look like. You might know it better under the name
bunny.
You might have even had a toy bunny as a child. We don't grow rabbits any more. We only grow rabbitlike, for food."