Watershed (20 page)

‘All the more reason why he's so disillusioned,' he said. ‘Cade also happens to be Alex's husband.'

Again I stared, finally at a loss. Very few people married. They coupled or grouped, same sex or different; some stayed together,
some didn't. But hardly anyone took vows any more, and if they did no one else gave a shit. Any gods had been banished and civility drowned, along with the rest. Now only the Godders remembered: zealots with plenty of faith, none of it in themselves. Alex didn't strike me as a zealot, at least not in that way. And sure as hell not while I'd kissed her.

‘She's a Godder?' I asked, making sure I'd heard right.

‘No. But Cade is. She agreed to marry because it was important to him. That's what people do, Jem. They compromise, for the sake of others.'

I remembered Cade's resolve, all his stiffness and his squeakiness. And his last words to Alex:
You know what to do
. Cade might be devoted, but I was willing to bet my last breath it wasn't to Alex.

‘Considering what happened before she hit me, I'm guessing theirs isn't a match made in heaven,' I joked.

‘But she did hit you, Jem. Cracked that thick head of yours and almost killed you. So don't flatter yourself. Alex was following her own orders.' There was a pause while he shot me one of his superior smiles. ‘Surely you weren't hoping it was something more?'

I took the risk, and grinned. ‘Nah, cunt's cunt, right?'

He didn't punch me this time. But he did sigh, long on disgust. ‘I wouldn't know, I'm afraid.'

What was there to know? But I let it go. ‘So was it your orders she was following, or her husband's?'

‘Alex did what she had to do, nothing more. And she'll do anything –
anything
, Jem – to ensure the success of our mission. As will Cade. The rest is between them.'

‘Yours then,' I guessed.

‘I think that's enough for today,' he said, standing abruptly, and cutting our time short. Then, wrinkling his nose, he grimaced. ‘Time you were washed and moved. In a word, my friend, you stink.'

A body gets used to its own odour. I'd been unclean before, had spent weeks without bathing while on assignment, but then I'd been in the open with the rest of the unwashed, not caged in an airless underground room, bound to a cot. I hadn't noticed the stench in the room because I'd never left it, but once showered and in my new quarters, even I could appreciate the difference.

Once again, Tate had been gentle. But he'd also been thorough, scouring me with sand and some kind of greasy soap before rinsing me clean, while I stood chained to a post in a large, shallow tub, the water pooling at my feet, grey with grime. Alex came in once with fresh buckets of water, but other than that it was just Tate, huge and silent.

He towelled me off and threw a cloak over my shoulders before we began the slow walk to my new room. Walking was no longer painful, but the hobbles reduced strides to shuffles, the chain heavier than the rope had been. The dark passageway was quiet, and though I tried I couldn't discern any telltale sounds of other people, making me wonder if Ballard had lied about the numbers. Except he had no reason to lie to a prisoner he was trying to recruit.

The room was bigger than the last, but just as sparsely furnished. Tate pushed me to the centre before turning to leave, and I stared after him in surprise.

‘Not gunna tie me down?' I asked.

He shook his head and opened his mouth for the first time. His voice was as deep as I'd expected, and as gentle as the rest of him.

‘Tonight. For now, you can move around, but the chains will stay on.'

‘So you do talk then,' I said. ‘Why all the silence?'

He regarded me for a moment. ‘A wise man doesn't waste his words.'

I grunted. ‘You might wanna tell Ballard that.'

Tate almost smiled. ‘He keeps his own counsel. You'd do well to listen.'

He moved to close the door, but I stopped him, surprising us both. ‘Thanks, Tate.'

A single nod and then he was gone, locking the door and leaving me alone again. But not strapped down, and the sudden feeling of elation almost made me giddy. I shuffled around, exploring my new cage. A jug of water and a cup, both tin, sat on a small stone ledge. There was no chair, just the cot bolted to the floor in a corner. I lifted the mattress, hoping for some kind of wire base, but there were just metal slats secured to the frame. That accounted for the discomfort, at least.

There was nothing I could fashion into a weapon, and I had no chance of breaking the chains. My search was habit more than anything, a deep-seated instinct to survive overcoming common sense, and my earlier excitement quickly seeped away. On the other hand, I could move, albeit slowly, and I spent the next few hours on my feet, stretching my legs and arms, exercising as much as I could. After not being able to move for so long, the simple act of touching my own body, scratching at an itch, rubbing my eyes or head, was wonderful. My freedom was relative, but I basked in what little I had, the smallest tasks becoming things of joy, every annoyance dulling to nothing. The cloak kept me warm enough, and there were no other clothes. Maybe they were still being careful, maybe it was simply intended to demean me, but either way I wasn't bothered.

Tate returned at one point with a bowl and plate and I was left to feed myself for the first time, another luxury. There were no utensils, so I drank the gruel straight from the bowl and ate the rest with my fingers. I was exercising again when he returned to collect them. He didn't speak, but waited patiently for me to finish before strapping me down on the cot, and that night I enjoyed a sleep that was both dreamless and deep.

Excerpt ~ Letter #12

 

If I think of all the great women of history (queens and presidents, scientists, poets, writers and musicians, women who fought alongside their partners and mothers who died to protect their children), I'm astounded that we were ever considered the weaker sex. Women aren't weak. That's just a fantasy, dreamed by men who'd have us believe it. Don't ever be one of those men, Jeremiah.

Pressing her hand to her face, where it smarted and stung, Sarah stared at the guard, shocked. It was obvious none of them were carrying anything out of the ordinary; Daniel shouldered a single skin that was almost empty and Sarah held only Jeremiah's hand; his other clutched the folded cloth heavy with shells and other bits from the shore.

It'd been a happy day. They'd set out at dawn, Jeremiah excited at the prospect of seeing the sea, and the long downhill walk had seemed to pass quickly. They'd stopped for a while on the cliffs, high above the water, feeling the wind, tasting the salty air, listening to the water's song, watching the distant black band of clouds drop their thick mist of rain. Above, fat grey crosses of gulls circled and screeched, and Jeremiah had held out his arms to them and laughed. At the very edge of the land, where dry met wet, they'd clambered over rocks and into shallow pockets of sand, dipping their hands into little pools to claim another shell or pebble, a bit of weightless washed wood or bone, or a shard of coloured glass smoothed and dulled by the water's caress. Daniel had used his knife to prise a few shellfish from their beds; he and Sarah chewed the briny flesh with relish; Jeremiah had spat his out. They'd sat to eat bread and cheese and afterwards had found a safe rock pool, though Sarah hadn't been able to coax Jeremiah into the water. Yes, it'd been a good day, and now they'd returned.

But when she'd tried to explain to the guards who'd stopped them at the gate and pulled them to one side, out of the way of others, that no, they had no seawater, no kelp or crabs or mussels or fish or eggs, indeed nothing they shouldn't – nothing they
weren't permitted, unless it was to sell at market – and surely they could see the boy was tired, one of the guards had struck her, hard across the face, the other blocking Daniel's attempts to step in and defend her. Still gripping his little collection fiercely, his knuckles whitening, Jeremiah watched everything, and said nothing.

You think I give a shit? the guard snapped at her. You think you're gunna get special treatment from me just coz I'm a woman?

Had she? Sarah wondered. Yes, perhaps she had. Perhaps she had thought to appeal to the guard's sense of solidarity, her appreciation of a child's exhaustion, her innate feminine understanding. But, too late, she realised her mistake. Whether the guard had willingly surrendered every trait that had once defined her gender, or whether her duties had snatched them from her, Sarah couldn't guess; it was enough to know that a woman who played at being the worst sort of man risked losing the best part of herself. Strength wasn't found in the embrace of cruelty, but in the rejection of it.

Doesn't work that way,
sister!
Those days are done, the guard sneered her scorn; her partner – male, of course – laughed, encouraging.

Sarah looked down at Jeremiah who'd stayed beside her, unafraid and still defiant. Open the cloth and show the lady what's inside, she said to him, careful to code her contempt for his ears only.

But he did more than that. Glaring at the guard, upending the bundle, he slowly spilled his finds; they tinkled as they tipped and bounced and rolled onto the road. There was a long silence, Sarah holding her breath, expecting worse, and the guard toed a shell with her boot, before crushing it to powder. Then she shrugged and the other guard released his hold on Daniel and, just like that, they were free to re-enter the Citadel, the entire exercise nothing more than a petty demonstration of power.

When Sarah bent and began to pick up the shells, Jeremiah touched her shoulder and said: It's okay, Gam. I don't want them now.

When Jeremiah brought her the gull, he was happy.

Look what I found! He held the injured bird carefully and Sarah stared, wondering where he'd got it. The sea was too far, and the only gulls in the Citadel were caged, ready for sale in the market. She hoped he hadn't stolen it.

Could he keep it? Could he?
Please?

She never regretted telling him of the pets she'd once had as a child, even though the practice was impossible now, nothing more than her memory and his dream. But that didn't stop him from trying. This wasn't the first time he'd brought in animals, though it was the first bird. The others, all skinks, had never lasted long.

Sarah shook her head. It was hurt, she said. See? Its wing was broken and it'd never be able to fly again, or find food. Probably best if they put it out of its misery.

You mean kill it, Jeremiah said, his voice low and quiet, accusing.

Yes, Sarah replied, looking him in the eye. That's what she meant. Not because she wanted to hurt it, but because she couldn't fix it and she didn't want it to suffer any more. Did he see the difference?

He didn't. So it was okay to kill things? he asked.

No, it was never okay to kill, she told him. But sometimes they had no choice, and sometimes they had to so they could eat. Like when they killed the goats, or the camels. And they used to do it to stop creatures from suffering too. Remember what she'd told him about the dogs and cats and things? Well, when they got too old, or were really sick, people would put them to sleep. A long deep sleep, so they didn't hurt any more.

Jeremiah looked at the bird. The beak was wide open; it was parched and in pain. He stroked it softly. And did they ever put people to sleep too? So they didn't hurt any more either?

No, replied Sarah quickly. That wasn't allowed, and the ones who did it were punished. Even now that made no sense, she thought. They'd put their pets to sleep humanely, and let their
loved ones suffer. But how did she explain that to the boy? He kept petting the bird, one finger stroking the smooth white neck. So white, and so pure. Its eyes were half-closed now and Sarah knew it didn't have long.

So was that Guard punished then? he asked. The one we saw in the square?

The question startled her, but she should have expected him to remember that terrible day when they'd watched a Guard kill a man and Jeremiah had forsaken his song. She shook her head; she didn't know. But if he hadn't yet, he would be, she said. When a person did such a bad thing, something bad always happened to them too. Eventually. What goes around, comes around, Jeremiah. You remember that.

He looked at her, still unsure. So if they killed this bird – if they made it go to sleep – would something bad happen to them?

No, nothing bad would happen because they'd be helping it, Sarah explained. But before she could offer to do it, to take away this burden, he shifted his hand and twisted the gull's head, snapping its neck. The good wing flapped a couple of times, and went limp.

There. Now it's asleep, he said, staring at the feathered body, while Sarah stared at him. She couldn't help her quick shiver.

That night she and Daniel enjoyed the meagre meat the gull had given them. But Jeremiah left his untouched.