Sparrows & Sacrifice

by Nellie K Neves

  His feet began the same path again, but not as fast. His fist clenched and pounded against his temple, as if he could jar the thoughts loose. “Always, but last night, after my punishment, Liam and Gabe said the same. They say you can’t love me because you rebel even when you know I’ll get hurt. It’s been rattling around in my head all night.”

  Emotion rose up in my throat so fast I feared I might choke on it. “I didn’t mean to get you hurt last night. I was scared. I…” My voice trailed off because excuses wouldn’t take away his pain.

  “I told them that.”

  Relief filtered through my veins, as cold as the damp dew that surrounded us.

  “You don’t kiss me.” Even through the bruising, I saw his brown eyes, eyes that I’d longed for almost every moment I’d been at Rockin’ B. His sadness belonged to me as well. “I kiss you and you let me, but that’s all. You’re not there. He’s there, but never you.”

  If I reached out for him, I wondered if my hands would touch the glass wall that fell between us. Thick and unyielding, impossible to penetrate. My insides felt hollow and shattered.

  I hurt him.

  He hurt me.

  “I’m trying,” I said, but the whisper felt pathetic against his accusation.

  It was all I had to give him. Love had no purpose in the world we’d stumbled into. Love wouldn’t keep him safe. Love wouldn’t stop the pain or the terror. Love would suck us both dry and expose the weakness I had for him. Love would only bind my hands and leave me lost and afraid. Love would kill us both.

  He didn’t say goodbye. Maybe the glass was too thick from his side as well. Not a single word and he was gone, with only the whisper of his accusation to haunt me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Fern collapsed by mid-afternoon. One second we were carrying food to the table, and the next she’d fallen on the ground. Soup spilled around her, rolls tumbled down the hill. I hated that my first thought was to pull her up so she wouldn’t be punished for destroying part of our dinner.

  Raife pulled her into his arms three seconds later. The sight of his soft and gentle side didn’t gel. For a moment all I could do was stare. It took four tries and a threat before his command sank in.

  “Get Willow!”

  I turned to run down the hill to her cabin, but somehow she knew. Her silver hair blew out behind her, caught in an invisible wind. Worry etched deep in her eyes as she touched Fern’s face.

  “She’s burning up. Get her to my cabin.”

  “But you’re so close to transition,” Raife’s voice betrayed fear. “If you’re not here, who will take care of her?”

  “Just go.” Willow glanced back at me once and, in that instant, I swore she knew everything—who I was, why I was there, every secret I kept behind locked doors and bolted cabinets in my mind. “Sparrow, follow me.”

  My feet moved without a second thought. Jogging to keep up with the spry woman and Raife’s lengthened stride, I barely heard our feet pound up the steps before we were inside Willow’s cabin.

  The dreamcatchers caught my eye first, at least fifteen on the back wall. Rocks strung between the netting, feathers dangled below the hoops. Bottles lined the far wall. Fabric spewed from boxes jammed in the corner. The air shifted from moment to moment, earthy to acidic, and then putrid like manure.

  Raife laid Fern on one of the single beds on the far side of the cabin. Fern’s frail body shivered, maybe from pain. That belonged to me too. The night air worsened her sickness.

  “Are you listening?”

  Raife’s voice brought my attention out of my guilt and into his anger.

  “I’m sorry, no. I didn’t hear you.”

  “You stay and help Willow with Fern.”

  “I thought I was in the garden—” My voice stopped short when I saw Raife’s hand rise as if he might strike me. “I’ll stay.”

  It was good enough for him. Again, I watched with curiosity as Raife’s fingers traced the side of Fern’s face with tenderness.

  He loved her.

  Somewhere deep within his blackened heart, he loved her.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Despite her age, Willow moved with dexterity and speed. She pulled powders from her shelves, mixed them with water and other liquids, made a paste for Fern’s feet and wrapped them in cloth strips. She thrust the mixture into my hands and instructed me to stir. I did my best, but within seconds Willow stole it back and whipped the mixture until it foamed.

  “Take her head,” she told me. Unlike the soft, feathered voices of the other women at Eden’s Haven, Willow’s resonated from deep in her chest, refusing to apologize for her choices or gender.

  Fern’s neck lacked muscle tension. Her head rolled in my hands without her control. Life drained from her with every wheezed breath. Willow propped the blue china bowl at her lips to pour a slender stream into her mouth. Fern swallowed out of reflex, but her body shuddered hard and jerked away.

  “Keep her steady.”

  I did my best to halt her thrashing as the rest of the liquid disappeared. I didn’t want to know what it was. The smell alone made me nervous to catch whatever Fern had found.

  “I thought you were the seamstress,” I said when Fern’s body finally relaxed in my arms again.

  A wry smile tickled Willow’s lips. “I am, but I do this as well.” Her fingers lingered at Fern’s cheek the same way Raife’s had. Warmth flooded her features as she looked at Fern, but concern clung to her, a fervid worry that she was too late.

  “She’s so weak.”

  Willow pushed up from the bed and set her bowl on a long wooden counter. “Well, she wouldn’t be if she’d come to me a little sooner.” She scoffed deeply. “Granted, if they fed us a little better than twigs and leaves perhaps she’d have energy left to fight with.”

  I’d never heard someone openly speak against the power at Eden’s Haven. Genesis hinted at it, Harmony spilled the secrets, but Willow criticized it outright.

  “At least now that she’s sick Raife will make sure she gets a few extra hard-boiled eggs.” Willow wiped the bowl clean and set it on the counter.

  I looked down at Fern’s simple face. Nothing remarkable stood out, her average features didn’t beg to be noticed. Yet there, with cheeks pink from fever, she was an angel.

  “He seems to care about her.”

  “Not enough to get her out of here. He may love her, but he loves power more.” Willow paused and stared at the wall as if it was a window with a view. “It was different before we came. I mean, they had nothing. I used to watch Moonlight while Fern went to work. They lived in that horrible apartment, but Raife wasn’t like this. He wouldn’t have laid a hand on her, or any other woman for that matter.” The bowl clattered as she set it with the others. “This place has a way of corrupting the best of them.”

  “You knew them before this?” I asked, careful to disguise my deep interest.

  Willow didn’t care either way. “I should hope so, I’m Fern’s mother.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  By that evening, Fern’s cough had deepened and her fever held steady. When Harmony dropped off a tray of food, she didn’t stay long. Her weighted frown told me what I needed to know. This had happened before, and it hadn’t ended well. Harmony’s previous comment about Lavender’s husband rang in my memory.

  His cold worsened and one day he didn’t wake up.

  I ate the roll and a bowl of vegetable broth. Meanwhile, I eyed the chicken breast and three boiled eggs with a jealousy my grandmother would have labeled ‘sinful’ if she were still alive.

  Fern wouldn’t eat. The broth pooled in her cheek and dribbled out the corner of her mouth before it splattered on the floor. Willow’s lips pinched together as she watched her daughter.

  “It has to be an infection.” The world tasted sour.

  “What can we do?”

  “Antibiotics or wait.”

  “Do you have antibiotics?”

  Her pucker shifted into a snarl. “Cyrus does. He
gives them to those he deems worthy.”

  No one had ever spoken ill of their leader either. What made her different? What made her fearless?

  Willow studied me, the same stare as before, unbolting locks, pulling boxes from the shelves of my mind to peer at the contents.

  “You’re not unattractive,” she said after a moment.

  What could I say to that? I managed a small thank you, but it sounded more like a question than a statement of gratitude.

  Without explanation, she stood up and moved to the shelves of bottles and jars. She mixed and pressed ingredients together, the granite mortar clinking against the pestle.

  “It’s that scar that worries people. To the women you are a reminder of the abuse. To the men you represent a struggle against the power. Without it, you’re nothing more than a face in the crowd.”

  With that perspective, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted the scar to fade.

  She thrust her concoction toward me. I took the small glass jar in my hands, the glass surprisingly warm.

  “Put it on twice a day. It should help.”

  My thoughts filtered back to the green paste she’d slathered on Fern’s feet. I sniffed at it and hoped I didn’t look rude.

  “What’s in it?”

  She listed the ingredients without a second thought. “Chicken manure, algae, pig’s blood, marrow from a fox bone,” a sly smile crossed her features, “and powdered dragon’s tooth for good luck.”

  She was teasing. Of course, she was. How silly I must have looked sniffing jars when she’d hinted at me being a threatening force against Eden’s Haven.

  “Mostly coconut oil,” Willow amended with a smile, “but that was worth it to see your face.” She turned back to her shelf. “Not so tough in the face of chicken manure, eh?”

  For a second, I forgot where we were. I forgot until I saw Fern out of the corner of my vision and the stress all returned again.

  “What do we do about her?”

  Nothing could be done. I saw it in Willow’s haunted expression. Saying it out loud only made it more poignant. Instead, she nodded at the untouched food.

  “You might as well eat it. It will spoil before too long. They will send more for Fern in the morning.” Her voice caught itself before she could tack on, “If she’s alive.”

  I hesitated. Fern was dying. She’d been allotted the food to save her, and if I ate it … I looked at her body, bonier than I remembered and pale as the white sheets.

  The first egg made my stomach turn, but the second went down easier. Hunger had become too commonplace for me. Much like my disease, each symptom bled into the last. At home, I tracked my symptoms in a notebook and recorded anything that had changed. Eden’s Haven muddled those changes.

  Was I dizzy because of vertigo or malnutrition? Was the headache caused by my disease or because Raife shoved me to the ground for the fourth time that day? When I was constantly wet, tired, cold, and weak, it was too hard to tell if I was sick from the multiple sclerosis, Eden’s Haven, or both.

  Willow watched me with amused curiosity. Immediately, my cheeks burned with self-consciousness. I hadn’t thought to offer or save anything for her.

  I extended the remaining egg toward her. “Would you like one?”

  “I’d rather feed the warrior, than prolong the demise of the dying.” Her selfless smile deepened with my confusion. “I have cancer. Stage 4. It won’t be long now.”

  I caught myself before I blurted out, “But you look so healthy.” I’d long since learned that looking healthy didn’t necessarily mean a person actually was healthy.

  “That’s why you’re transitioning?” I still didn’t fully understand the phrase, other than it was her ticket out of the compound.

  She didn’t look happy about it, but it couldn’t be easy leaving her daughter and grandchild. But with no medication at Eden’s Haven to help her, death would be inevitable.

  “You might actually do it, you know?” Willow said out of the blue. “It’s possible.”

  I tilted my head in question to her statement.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the first one who might be able to overthrow Cyrus.”

  My chest tightened in defense. “I don’t—why would I—,” but my stammering meant nothing against her knowing eyes.

  “Your secret is safe with me. Don’t worry.”

  Worry was all I’d done since I’d arrived at Eden’s Haven, but I wondered if Willow might be right. If I could change the circumstances of Eden’s Haven, maybe Fern could visit her mother in the hospital. But none of that mattered unless I could save Fern.

  Chapter 25

  The longer I stewed on it, the clearer my path became. The main house held everything I needed. Tasha, the antibiotics, and, with enough digging, I knew I’d find other secrets ferreted away.

  Spotting a clipped wire on the long shelf, I palmed it while Willow checked Fern’s fever. Same results, same frown on her face as she looked at me. My fingers wrapped around a hair pin on the windowsill, nearly giddy at the idea of breaking and entering the main house. Perhaps it should’ve bothered me that I’d missed breaking the law. But it didn’t.

  “You should get some sleep tonight, Sparrow,” Willow said. “Tomorrow may be a very hard day.”

  She didn’t expect her daughter to make it through the night. This knowledge solidified my decision. I refused to stand by and let her die. I owed her a debt. Fern risked her life for me in the shed. I owed her the same.

  I stepped out the door into the dark, damp night. A slow drizzle hummed on the cabin roofs. Within moments, the grass soaked my thin canvas shoes. I hated how my linen skirt became heavier with every step. I ached for a pair of blue jeans.

  And a burger.

  I had near sinful thoughts about fast-food every day.

  Guards expected to see me traveling back to my cabin. I made a show of it, kicking rocks from my path in the dark, tripping once so that the sound echoed in the dark night. The clouds blocked any light from the moon, but I knew if my eyes had adjusted, then the guards were easily tracking my movements.

  I made it to the main cabin, my feet crunched against the gravel and I paused to listen. My instincts went razor sharp, fists clenched, ready to fight, comfortable in a place that felt natural for once.

  Nothing came.

  The folds of darkness swallowed me as I moved through the damp grass without a sound. The rain persisted. My wet hair matted to my face. My fingers went numb, from my nerves or the cold, it didn’t matter. I’d learned to control them despite my deficiencies years before. Instinct told me to keep to the outside perimeter of every building. The rough wood scraped my palms as I edged around the cabins. The night’s cold breath slipped around my neck. Every step closer to the main house meant another step closer to the possibility of death.

  A sound halted my progression. Two men sat by a campfire, if you could call it that. The rain hissed and snarled. The drizzling weather fought the flames, producing more smoke than warmth, but it put off enough light that I had to be careful. My eyes scanned the hillside, seeking sanctuary in the night. Their voices betrayed the ease they felt. Their eyes scanned the hill beneath them, and I realized they weren’t waiting on an outsider’s attack, but kept careful watch for inward rebellion.

  The two men waited for someone like me.

  Backtracking down the hill, I slipped beyond the reach of their flames and its exposing light. For once, the watchers were being watched. I felt like a predator, a female lioness tracking them from the trees. The main house neared, but the lights from the kitchen windows cast a spotlight over the grass. I dodged each, precise in my movement. Sounds near the back of the house stopped my heart. I pressed myself against the outer frame of the house. I craned around the corner to catch sight of the guard.

  Gabe.

  Ryder’s friend and confidant.

  Supposed leader of the rebellion, but I had my doubts. His body shifted to turn. I jerked back to the darkness
with a painful gasp of breath. A twig cracked. Gabe closed in on me. My heart rate doubled in an instant.

  Too much pride.

  Too much vulnerability.

  I was no better than the rest of them. I clenched my eyes shut and listened.

  Closer.

  Closer still.

  If Ryder was right, if Gabe really led the rebellion, then I was in no danger, but if he was wrong...

  Two feet away.

  The calculated movement of his steps told me he’d seen something, or maybe only sensed my presence, but it was enough.

  One foot away.

  His breath broke the night. His hands adjusted on his automatic weapon, sticky with sweat. My lungs burned as I held my breath. Only eight inches between us, too close to be safe.

  “Hey Gabe!” One of the men called from the fire. “Come down here.”

  Gabe swore under his breath. His sigh spoke more of his annoyance and less of relief. I kept my eyes closed, fearing that the whites of them might betray me as he passed my shadow, and listened until he was gone.

  Not waiting another second, I sprang to the back door. The knob gave way under my hand. I felt a pang of disappointment that I wouldn’t get to pick the lock. The door opened into the dining room, ranch style, old table, nothing fancy or feminine about it. A single light from the hood of the kitchen stove cast long shadows over the cracked linoleum floor. My feet stuck to the dirty floor. I cringed as one shoe made a ripping sound. Fearing discovery, I slipped them off and moved on the balls of my bare feet.

  I didn’t know the layout of the house. I had no idea if any men slept inside, where the women slept, or where Cyrus kept his office. Still, I’d come through enough that I wasn’t willing to stop. Danger and stupidity aside, I pressed on.

  My clothes clung to me, heavy from the rain. I moved into the living room. The darkness betrayed little. A light from a VCR blinked 12:00, casting a green glow at rhythmic intervals. I swore I heard breathing from one of the couches. Deep, masculine, but as frightening as a hibernating grizzly.