by Claire Vale
“Silence,” Mac clips out. “No speaking unless spoken to.”
We stare at her in confusion.
“Why not?” June ventures.
“Until sunset, you are not civilians with any basic human rights,” Mac tells us. “You are prisoners, subject to the word of the guard in charge.”
“Okay,” Rose says, “but why can’t we talk?”
“Because I say so.” Mac stands straighter. I swear she snaps her heels together, although I don’t look to see. “And your only job today is to listen and obey.”
My brows go up. Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. “If this is a friendly warning,” I say to Jessie under my breath, “I don’t want to see what punishment looks like.”
“Keep this up, and you’ll find out soon enough.” Mac steps up to me, gets right in my face. “Do you think this is a joke?”
I swallow hard. “No, no I don’t.”
“Your sentence has been reduced to one day, but there won’t be any leniency on how you serve that time. Do you understand?”
Loud and clear. I nod.
Mac steps back to look at all of us. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” we reply in varying degrees of disgruntlement.
The radio clipped at Mac’s hip squawks. She presses a button to silence it. “Okay, let’s move, ladies.”
We follow her into the facilities building. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the guys aren’t far behind. Down the passage that runs alongside the cafeteria, but that’s not where we’re going. We cross the foyer, exiting via the main entrance to the world outside those iron-studded doors. Two jeeps wait there, the canvas taupe rolled down and fastened tight. A guard stands at the rear of each jeep. As we approach, they unlatch the corners of the canvas to open a flap for us to crawl through. Girls in one jeep, guys in the other.
As I clamber inside, I notice the baton dangling at the guard’s thigh. Thick and black and menacing. The guards don’t walk around town armed with anything more than honed muscle and the fear of Alder law.
I don’t know if it’s that baton or the claustrophobic canvas, but the air is stifling. The morning sun is only just starting to bake off the haze of dawn, else it would be a sweathouse in here. The flap is lowered, secured on the outside, leaving us alone in semi-darkness and air that feels too thin to carry sufficient oxygen to my lungs.
I huddle next to Jessie and Rose on one bench. Mai sits directly across from me, then Hannah and June.
“They’re just trying to scare us,” Mai says with a shrug as the engine whirs to life and the jeep lurches. “I mean, it’s not like we really did anything wrong.”
Except we really did, I think but don’t say. No one needs a voice of doom right now.
“How long do you think the ride is?” asks Hannah. “I’ve heard the mines are up north, but I’ve never been.”
We all look at one another. No one offers a guess. The mines aren’t off-limits, there’s supposedly a bustling village there for the workers, but it’s not a fun attraction I’ve ever felt the urge to visit.
We sit quietly for a few more minutes, then the talk defaults to boys.
“Luke offered for me,” Hannah tells us. “I’ve decided to accept.”
“Luke Williams?” Rose says sharply.
Hannah shakes her head. “Luke Fairdale.”
“Sean and I lodged our pairing yesterday,” Mai inserts with a dimpled smile “And I heard Grace offered for Jacob. He accepted.”
Rose sighs noisily. “That’s desperate.”
I don’t know whether she means Grace or Jacob, maybe both. I’m not sure I’d be bold enough to offer for a guy, specially someone I didn’t know all that well. What if he’d said no?
All these new pairs sprouting up gives me pause, though. Gabe and I would be paired already if I hadn’t made such a fuss when he wanted to. I wish I hadn’t, and I’m determined to put it right as soon as possible. Tomorrow straight after breakfast, I promise myself.
“What about you?” I hear from Mai.
Looking up, I see the question is for Rose.
“I’ve got someone in mind,” Rose says coolly. “I’m taking it slow for now.”
Chris would beg to differ.
“I want to make sure he’s the one,” Rose goes on. “Then I’ll put out some signals and wait for him to come to me.” She smiles from left to right. “That’s how it’s done.”
Hannah leans forward on her knees. “Who?”
Rose taps her nose. “That’s none of your business.”
“No, seriously, who is it?” says Mai. “Sean tells me everything the boys talk about when we’re not around. I could ask him to put out some feelers.”
“It’s not a boy,” Rose says. “It’s Kane, of course. Who else?”
Mai gawks. “Kane Marques?”
“Isn’t him and Annabelle a thing?” Hannah says.
“That’s over,” Jessie pipes in. “He broke it off weeks ago.”
June says, “I heard she broke up with him.”
How do I not know any of this? “Annabelle?” I ask. “As in Belle-Struck Anna?”
Jessie hitches a brow at me. “The one and only.”
“You never thought to mention it?”
“You hate gossip.”
This is Kane! I bite my lip, uncomfortable with where that came from. “Belle-Struck Anna isn’t gossip,” I mumble, shifting lower on the bunk. “She’s legend.”
“She’s pathetic,” Rose says. “The Alders should insist she pair and do her duty.”
“They leave broken pairs alone, that’s only fair.”
“Not true. My mom came back from her Tithe a broken pair and she said they gave her two years, then started dialing up the pressure.”
The conversation goes on around me while I get stuck on Annabelle. Very little ever filters out from the Tithe, let alone an actual rumor, but this one spread through Ironcross like wildfire.
The story goes like this: During Annabelle’s Tithe four years back, six boys were totally smitten with her. She has the kind of beauty that takes your breath away (fact, not rumor, I’ve seen her around town.) Anyway, the boys spent their entire Tithe challenging for her hand and when she finally made her choice, the other five were heartbroken and refused to pair with anyone else. They were Tithed, of course, along with four girls left single as a result.
That’s not the real tragedy of this story, though. After all that effort, the guy she agreed to marry was also Tithed, sending Annabelle home one half of a broken pair. Six boys gone forever, but they live on in Ironcross as the Belle-Struck Boys.
And this is where the rumor diverges.
Some say the Alders did it to teach the Belle-Struck Boys a lesson, that there are no winners in those kinds of games. Others reckon it was to punish Annabelle for leading them on, pitting one against another.
Some say Annabelle has remained single because she’s nursing a broken heart. Others claim she takes lovers all over town, no one is safe from being turned into the latest Belle-Struck Boy, another woman’s husband, another mother’s teenage son. I don’t know if that’s true, but according to my sources in this jeep with me, she’s taken Kane, regardless of who threw whom back.
“I bet Annabelle changes her mind, now that Kane’s an Alder.”
“I told you, he broke up with her.”
“Because he was elected? He must have known weeks back. The timing makes sense. Maybe he thinks he can do better.”
“Better than Belle-Struck Anna? Please…”
“Come on, I know you’re not allowed to notice, but he’s shit hot and an Alder. He’s like…like the elixir of drop-dead gorgeous eligible suitors.”
Mai’s gushing ropes me back into the conversation, back to Kane. I hadn’t given it much thought, but she is absolutely right. Kane the Alder is pure elixir. There’s the prestige, the affluence, the power—that goes without saying. But there’s also the Tithe exemption for his children and his children’s children…for ev
ery Marques generation born while he holds the position. It would be morally unjust to expect the Alders to choose fairly and wisely if their own kin were thrown into the hat.
No wonder Georga is willing to sweep her haughty principles under the carpet and make an exception for him.
Which reminds me.
“Don’t take this the wrong way—” please do, Kane was Georga’s batty idea, not yours “—but do you seriously think you stand a chance with Kane?” I say to Rose. “I mean, he turned down Annabelle.”
“I’m not afraid to aim high,” she says snottily. “Some of us were born with the beauty and the brains to play in the big league.”
I try not to gag. “Besides, I guess you do have a fallback plan.”
She purses her lips at me, says nothing more.
Neither do I.
Poor Chris doesn’t need to be hauled into this.
18
THE MINES ARE AS bleak and unappealing as I always imagined. If there’s a bustling village nearby, we must have missed it while blinded by canvas in the back of the jeep.
We’re deposited in a dusty camp of tin shanties and clapboard units, the main thoroughfare a rutted, unpaved road. The rise and fall of undulating hills surround us, nothing spectacular, not much more than mounds covered in rocky sand and weeds and eroded by excavated gashes.
Five guards emerge from a unit to take possession of us. I can’t help but notice the batons hanging at their thighs, the tough exteriors of brawn and attitude. One has black ink spiraling up his neck. They’re like a whole other species from the ones I’m more familiar with.
Heedless to the grim faces of our new guards, Gabe rushes to my side, pulling me into his arms for a quick hug and an even quicker peck on my forehead. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.” I smile, turning out of his hug but not yet ready to let go. My hand links into his.
One of the guards, the beefy one with his head shaved and muscle where his throat should be, drills a look into me as he greets us, “Welcome to camp hell.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes at his lack of creativity.
“Over there…” He points to a clapboard that hasn’t weathered the last hundred or so seasons very well. “That’s the mess. The breakfast gong goes off in ten minutes—make that the end of breakfast gong. When you hear it, you stop eating, you stop chewing, you spit out whatever’s in your mouth. Do you understand?”
We all eye each other. Chris and Kadin take a step forward, starting toward the mess.
“Did I release you?” the muscle-throated guard barks, stopping them dead in their tracks. “You don’t move without my say-so. You don’t speak unless asked a direct question. When I ask a question, you nod your damn heads because the answer is never no.”
The other four guards hang back, but they look ready to intervene if and when required.
“Now, where was I…? Ah, yes, when you hear the breakfast gong, you stop chewing, you spit out whatever’s in your mouth. Do you understand?” He waits for our heads to nod, his cruel eyes picking over us, coming to a hard landing on where my hand is linked in Gabe’s. “Time is ticking, I know, I know, but let me repeat it for the benefit of our lovebirds here. All that passion rushing through your blood, makes it hard to hear, don’t it?”
He starts from the beginning, word for word except now the breakfast gong is going off in eight minutes. About halfway through, I get the message and move apart from Gabe.
Once muscle-throat finally releases us, we scramble for the decrepit mess like we’re starved animals. I’m not the least bit hungry, but I have a feeling my body’s going to need the fuel.
The ‘mess’ is an empty shell with a long table that holds some wicker baskets and tin canteens, and we’re not alone in there. Four weary, dirt-scrubbed faces turn to stare as we herd inside, one woman amongst the men. They don’t say anything, just stare and bite down on their chunks of bread. They look like they’re nearing the end of a three-month stretch—or maybe they’re just nearing the end, period.
I reckon we have about five minutes to eat, which may be four minutes more than we’ll need. The baskets are almost empty. We divide the dry bread between us and chase it down with swigs from the canteen. The last crumb is gone before the gong sounds.
“This is going to be unbearable,” Jessie whispers to me as everyone starts filing outside.
“Stick close to me and Gabe,” I tell her. “We’ll get through it.”
Gabe touches my arm, leans in. “Shhh…let’s not piss these assholes off any more than necessary.”
I totally agree, but there’s one more thing I have to do before I mute myself. I snatch June away from Olly’s side just inside the door. “Looks like this place is going to be a nightmare. Don’t let them make you do anything risky.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got these.” She pats a small bulge in the front pocket of her jeans.
“Herbs?” I try to sound positive, keep my skepticism to myself. “Just promise me you’ll take care.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll speak up if you get into difficulty?” I insist.
“For goodness sake,” she snaps in a low voice.
She turns to go and I grab her arm, spinning her back to me. “Promise me.”
Her face shuts down.
I’m irritating her. And I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t promise. Will I tell someone? Should I?
She holds my gaze. “I promise.”
It’s there, in her steady gaze, in the resolve that shelves her shoulders back. I’m no expert on asthma, and she’s been living with it all her life. She’s got this.
“Okay.” I let go of her arm and we hurry out to find our places in the line forming there. A stocky, black-haired guard notices our tardiness, he makes sure I register his scowl, but he doesn’t raise a stink about it. Maybe now they’ve put the fear of God into us, they’re loosening up a bit.
I allow myself a shallow breath of relief as I slot in between Jessie and Gabe.
Muscle-throat paces the line, studying us through narrowed eyes. He points and calls out, “You… You… You… You…You…” and the picked persons step forward. Gabe is one of them, so is Rose and Mai and Chase. They’re a tick behind, following the example of the bearded man picked with them.
Gabe glances back at me. I give the slightest shake of my head. Turn around. Don’t draw attention. He looks at me another beat before he listens.
A guard leads them off and I’m still watching as they disappear inside one of the tin shanties when the next set is singled out, June, Hannah, Luke and Kadin, and the woman. It’s not lost on me, that we’re being intentionally separated from our natural groupings. They’re taken to wait outside the shanty and I’m itching to demand an explanation, what’s happening in there! but muscle-throat scares the crap out of me. I’m not that brave, and neither is anyone else.
I steal a look at the long-timers. They seem resigned to the proceedings, not horrified or panicked. I guess this is routine, just another day in paradise.
Muscle-throat points to me, Chris, Olly, Sean, and a man with beady eyes. We step forward, but aren’t motioned to go anywhere. We’re waiting…for Gabe’s group to emerge, shuffling out awkwardly, and then the black-haired guard ushers us to the shack while June’s group goes inside.
My eyes are glued to Gabe as I walk, glued to the shackle at his ankles that binds him to the other four in his group on a short length of chain. I don’t understand the purpose. It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to run to. There’s nowhere to hide in Ironcross, nowhere where you won’t eventually be found.
The shackling doesn’t take long and a few minutes later I’m shuffling out the tin shanty in jerky steps. It could be worse. I’m shackled directly to Chris and at the end of our line, so my left ankle has been left free. But the short chain means every time I fall out of sync, the cuff tugs and bangs into the bone of my ankle and there’s no protection, I’m wearing three-quarter jeans which I thought wou
ld be sensible against the heat.
We stand in our groups while the others are processed through the tin shanty. I want to move closer to Gabe, Olly no doubt wants to move closer to June, but we can’t voice our wants and we can’t drift apart, so there we stand, helpless and hopeless.
Once we’re all done, the guards march us down the dirt thoroughfare. It’s a slow, staggered procession that just seems totally unwarranted. I walk with my eyes on Chris’ foot, carefully measuring my step to his, but every now and then I miscalculate the beat and—shit! Pain shoots up my calf bone, a hiss whistling through my gritted teeth.
“Sorry,” Chris says under his breath. “I’m trying.”
I know, I mouth, still wincing through the pain. His other ankle is shackled to the beady-eyed man whose beat he has march to, and the man has to march to Olly’s, and so on and so on. This whole thing is designed to give us as much grief as possible.
Chris’ eyes go wide, over my head. “It was me,” he spits out. “She didn’t do anything.”
The sharp sting to the back of my thighs takes me by surprise. A brutal shock. I gasp and scream and suck in a breath, all at the same time, and it feels like a wad of air stuck in my windpipe.
“You’re a team,” the black-haired guard says flatly, clipping the baton back onto his belt. “I don’t care who does the talking or who suffers for it.”
By this time, our entire chain gang has stalled. Chris’ face turns red with choked anger, the sting at the back of my thighs is spreading into a throbbing burn, but it’s the shout that comes from behind that chills me.
“You bastards,” Gabe shouts. “She’s a girl!”
No, no, no.
I swivel around to see muscle-throat swing the baton. The strike swats the back of Gabe’s thighs, a lot harder than the sting I received, the impact collapsing him on his knees.
“Gabe,” I sob out. He staggers upright, his mouth twisted in anguish, or maybe fury, or maybe both. My legs hollow out. Tremors shake my hands. Tears swell in my eyes. I can’t make sense of this cruelty.
Chris’ fingers wrap mine, firmly enough to absorb the tremor. I peer sidelong at him, feel the intensity of the way he’s looking at me. He cocks his head, his brow furrowed, his gaze hooking into me until I blink back the blur in my vision and give a small nod.