Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) (4 page)

I cry out in relief and run for the shelter, slipping on the oily black pavement. I hear another tree crash in the forest beside me and I pick up the pace. I am only ten feet away from the building when I hear a loud crack, and everything goes dark.

I wake to a pair of big brown eyes staring intently into my own. I scream, scrambling to the top of the bed in an effort to escape from the very dirty, very tan . . . little girl. Standing beside the bed, she cocks her head quizzically to the side, her thick mop of unruly brown hair contrasting sharply with the stark white room around us.

"You certainly are a strange one, even for a highborn," she laughs.

I look her up and down, from the top of her matted head to the bottom of her bare feet. No weapons, and barely dressed, I don't think this girl, who looks about nine, is a threat.

"Who are you?" I ask her.

"I'm Ruth."

"Where am I?"

"My house."

"Where is your house?"

"In the village."

"What happened to me?" I ask, rubbing the throbbing knot behind my right ear.

"You got knocked smooooth out!"

"Why did you call me a highborn?"

"Well you sure ain't a human."

"I am pretty sure I'm human," I laugh.

Ruth gives me a funny look before reaching out a dirt-streaked hand to pull down the collar of my shirt, exposing my left shoulder.

"Ohhhh," she says with awe. "You ain't marked. You must be tough. It aint easy gettin' out of the city when you're so young."

"Marked? What do you mean marked?" I ask.

“Oh, yeah!" she cries, hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand, "I'm supposed to bring you to my Papa when you wake up."

Ruth grabs my hand, pulling me off the bed and toward the door, giving me my first good look at the room. White, clean, and full of windows, the room is completely made of wood. Leafy ferns crowd the windowsills, and dried flowers hang from the ceiling. Two twin beds are jammed into the cozy space leaving just enough room to walk between them.

"Your Papa isn't going to hurt me is he?" I ask nervously.

"Of course not!" she laughs. "Humans won't hurt nobody. Who doesn't know that?"

She gives my arm a good yank, and resumes dragging me down a short hallway into a living area. Thick rugs and colorful pillows are strewn in a semi-circle around an ornate fireplace, creating a lavish, but crude, decor. A man is sitting in front of the flames pushing around red-hot coals with a long stick. He is tall, lean, and tan with brown eyes and hair to match his daughter's. He puts down his stick as we walk in, motioning for us to have a seat amidst the hodgepodge of cushions.

"Nice to see you're not dead," he says casually.

"Oh, uh . . . thank you," I say nervously. "I'm happy to be alive. My head aches a bit though."

"That was a nasty storm to be running around in," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"It kind of snuck up on me."

"And then knocked you clean out!" Ruth laughs.

"Ruth," her father warns, "Don't be rude."

"Sorry Papa."

"I think I must have been hit by branch or something," I say.

"More like a whole tree," he says. "You are very lucky to be alive. We weren't sure if you would wake up there for a few days."

"A few days? I've been out for a few days? How is that possible?"

"You . . . got . . . hit in the head . . . by a tree," Ruth says slowly. "Geeze! I thought these highborn ladies were supposed to be smart."

"Ruth!"

"Sorry, Papa."

"My daughter is actually the one who found you," he says, eyeing the little girl. "She may be a crude little thing, but Ruth is one of our village's best runners. She was heading back from town when the storm blew in. She found you in the road and came to get me."

"I can't believe I was out for so long," I say, shaking my head. "Thank you for rescuing me, Ruth. I wouldn't have survived out there unconscious for so long. I appreciate both your attention and hospitality. I hope I haven't caused any trouble."

"We typically wouldn't do anything to risk exposing us to the outside world, but my Ruthie has a soft spot for people in need," he says.

"Why did Ruth say I'm not human?"       

"Our people believe the actions of your people are inhumane, and therefore consider ourselves the only true humans left."

"I have no idea who my people are, but I hope they aren't as bad as you think. She called me a highborn. Why does that mean?"

He looks at me with a curious expression. "Don't you know where you're from?"

I shake my head no, but offer no further explanation. He eyes me for a moment, and I can see the questions running across his mind. He finally bows his head in acknowledgment, and starts to talk in the voice of a true storyteller. Ruth scoots closer to me, and slips her little hand in mine.

"My daughter calls you highborn because she believes you are from one of the cities. She made this assumption based on your pale skin and accent. Outsiders such as my daughter and myself tend to be darker because we spend most of our lives outdoors, and as you may have noticed, our native grammar is different than yours."

"So having pale skin is a sign of being highborn. Why would anyone care so much about skin color?"

"In the cities, pale skin is prized. The laborers and farmers tend to be the only ones with any sort of color, and even they work to prevent it," he says sadly. "It's a standard of their social hierarchy. The classes don't mingle regardless, but people with darker skin are all but shunned by even the lowest of the merchant class. It's not that they dislike the look of a tanned body, it is simply what it represents."

"Meaning, darker skin represents lower class for having to labor outside for a living?" I ask shocked. "That is so cruel."

"Yes, it is, which is why it is one of the many reasons my people do not consider yours worthy of humanity."

I look down at my arm, amazed that so much of who I am can be gleamed from just a glimpse of my skin. This man seems to know more about me just by sight, than I know about myself at all. I suddenly become self-conscious sitting next to the tanned man and his child. Before I lost my memory, would I have looked down on them just because their skin is different than mine? It seems ridiculous, but probable. If I grew up in the city, it is likely that I was taught such beliefs, and held them myself.

Ruth's father softly pats my hand, and I pretend it's because he is worried about my health. I look into his eyes, and I know he knows what I'm thinking. Casting my gaze down in embarrassment, I slowly withdraw my hand. What these people must think of me, and yet, here they are taking me in and helping me heal. They are kind to me despite their belief in my inhumanity. If I still had my memories, would I have been kind to them in return?

"She don't have a mark Papa," Ruth chimes in, breaking the silence.

Ruth's father tilts his head and stares at me with an inquisitive look on his face. I suddenly feel very much like a stray animal, some strange creature he has never seen before.

"It's unusual for someone to leave the city young enough to miss getting a mark," he says.

"What is a mark?"

"You really don't have any idea who you are, do you?"

"Not at all," I say.

"A mark is a form of identification used by the city officials to keep track of their citizens," he says. "Much like branding cattle. From a young age, all girls and boys go to a school in the city. When they turn 18, they graduate and get their mark. It's a series of letters and numbers tattooed on the body. For women it's above the left collar bone, and for men, the inside of the left forearm." He picks up his burnt stick and draws "A04A0501-A03" on the floor.

"This was my wife's number," he says.  "Before we were married she lived in Axiom, one of the cities near here. She was able to escape, but not until she was 20 and already had her mark."

"It just looks like a jumbled mess, what does all that stand for?"

"It's actually a smart system, although barbaric," he says. "The first letter is for her father's birth city, Axiom. The "04" represents his surname. The second letter is her mother's birth city, also Axiom, and "05" represents her mother's maiden name. The "01" means she was the couple's first child to graduate from the school."

"What about the last bit at the end? "

"That stands for her husband," he says sadly. "When you graduate the school you are assigned a spouse and the mark is tattooed on."

"I would never let someone pick my husband," Ruth says.

"The ability to choose is the price they pay for security," he says. "On the other side of the wall, people have everything they need, but get very little say in how they live their life."

"Their last names ain't actually numbers," Ruth says to me. "I used to think that's what it meant but it don't."

"No." he says, smiling down at his daughter, "The number just represents the last name. Ruth's grandfather's name was the fourth surname to be assigned in Axiom, Smith. Her grandmother carried the fifth name of Branson."

"That seems really complicated," I say.

"I always thought so, but my wife claimed it was just a part of life, that knowing a person's heredity by their mark came as second nature. She actually considered an unmarked shoulder to be unattractive if you can believe it."

"Why mark the skin like that?" I ask. "Isn't there a less painful way to keep up with who everyone is?"

"I think the original idea was just a matter of needing a quick and permanent way to track their citizens. It's more of a social standard now though. The closer your surnames are to 01, the higher you are thought of. It means you have a more established, and often wealthier, family. The tattoo has become desirable, and they are proud to show it off."

"And you think I was in one of these schools but ran away before I could get marked?"

"If I had to guess, that would be it," he says studying me. "It's actually impressive, not many people manage to escape the city, much less someone as young as you."

"You make it sound like a prison."

"In a way it is. Leaving is not allowed, but honestly, most people don't want to. As bad as they think it is inside, they have been taught the outside is much worse."

"I am starting to wonder if I should even go back," I say. "Why would I want to put my freedom into the hands of someone else?"

"Because it's dangerous for you out here," he says. "The army doesn't take kindly to those who defy them. They only leave our village alone because they like to trade with our runners, and we help keep an eye on other outsiders. It's not the most honorable task, but it keeps our families and our way of life safe."

"I was told I needed to find a safe house. Do you know where one is?"

"Ruth can take you. I would take you myself, but I can't risk being scanned. You will be safe with Ruth, though, she has nothing to hide."

"Scanned?"

"You're not stupid are you?" Ruth blurts out shocked.

"Ruth!"

"Sorry, Papa, but she doesn't know anything. Not a single thing!"

"Not anything useful," I say. "Although, I think I remember how to make blackberry jelly."

"I'll have to get that recipe from you before you go," he laughs.

"It's actually pretty complicated," I say. "It involves a snake and a suitcase . . ."

"She really is crazy," Ruth mutters to herself.

"You will have to excuse my daughter," Ruth's father says, eyeing the girl again. "Scanning is something very fundamental in our world. When you meet a soldier, they will have a device on their arm; a silver bracelet called a scanner that is able to detect if a person is lying or speaking the truth. The scanner is never wrong, and punishments are severe for any crime they find you have committed."

"I don't guess I could just stay here instead of going back?" I ask, suddenly afraid of meeting one of these soldiers.

"I am afraid not. Our elders have forbidden us from taking on any new non-humans. Ruth's mother was the last."

"I suppose it's off to the safe house then." I say looking at Ruth, who is smiling ear to ear.

"I love a trip to the safe house!" she cries. "Ain't no human braver than me neither! I can get you there in no time."

"When do we leave?" I ask.

"A cousin of Ruth's is getting married tomorrow afternoon," he says. "You will have to wait until after that to leave. I hope that isn't a problem for you."

"Not at all," I say. "Ruth is going to so much trouble for me, I would hate to make her miss the wedding too."

"Then it is all settled," he says, returning to poking the fire with his stick, wordlessly declaring the conversation to be over.

A trip to the indoor outhouse, and a cup of pain relieving tea later, I am back in bed. Ruth is lying in the twin next to me, already fast asleep. Scrubbed clean, she looks like a vulnerable little girl, not the wild child I met. I snuggle down under the covers, smiling to myself over the funny way that she talks. I had noticed her father didn't have the same way of wording things as she did. Did he pick up his manner of speech from his wife?

Morning brings an overly excited little girl, and a tour of the village, which is actually a semi-circle of incredible three storied, wooden houses with thatched roofs.