Unafraid

by Megan Lynch

  Though it was freezing outside, she put on her new-to-her coat and hat and headed outside for a walk. The streets of Edinburgh never ceased to cheer her, though there was always a short period where she had to adjust to being one of few brown people on the street. It didn’t bother her too much, just when she saw people staring at her. She usually noticed it only at the very beginning of her walk, then had the rest of her afternoon to just enjoy the winding streets and the colorful shop windows.

  She was just passing a small tea room and getting into one of her favorite daydreams—that she’d one day have money to buy a cup of tea and sit to drink it there—when someone waved to her from the window. She stopped and recognized the friendly face. What was Taye doing inside a tea room?

  A bell tinkled softly from far above Samara’s head when she opened the door. The room warmed her chapped cheeks and she inhaled the spicy scent of something baked and sweet. Taye had been seated at a table near the window, but he stood when she walked in and gestured to her. Samara looked around, suddenly aware of how her skin and clothes separated her from the other patrons, painfully aware that she didn’t have any money to buy anything.

  Surprisingly, Taye had a cup of half-finished tea on his table, as well as an empty plate littered with crumbs. He stepped toward the empty chair and held it out for Samara. “On your walk already? You usually pass here much later.”

  She wouldn’t ask how he knew—that’s what he wanted and she could tell. “I decided to make the loop backward today.”

  “I see you every day. I usually sit there by the other window, but there was a family there today.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean? I’m having a cup of tea. I’m people-watching.”

  “How did you buy that?” Her eyes pointed to the cup. “You don’t have a watch anymore, and I’m not even sure they use those for transactions here.”

  “They don’t. Well, some of them do, but it’s not common yet.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair, like a movie star on a break from filming but still in costume. “I just walked in and asked if I could have it.”

  Samara paused. “You walked in…”

  “…and I asked if they could spare a cup of tea and a biscuit. And whadoyaknow, they could.”

  “Did you tell them you were a refugee?”

  Taye snorted and briefly glanced around at the other tables. “I didn’t have to. We don’t exactly have a typical Scottish look, do we?”

  “You come in every day, and they just give you free food?”

  “Yep. Every day for the past four days, anyway. They seem happy to give it. I can get some for you, too. Are you hungry?” He flashed a smile.

  It had been so long since she’d eaten something purely for pleasure. There was plenty of food at Olympic Village, but no decadence. She’d never tasted chocolate before, but she’d seen it in display cases and store windows, and she recognized crumbs of it on Taye’s plate. Her mouth watered just thinking about what it must be like. Only Threes and above were allowed to buy it back home. Taye saw her looking and grinned. He made a motion to the short, stout woman behind the counter and pointed to Samara. In no time, two small saucers appeared at her elbow; one with a cup full of steaming tea, and the other with a thin wafer covered in chocolate. She thanked the little woman and stared at the gifts.

  “This doesn’t feel exactly right,” she said.

  “That’s because you haven’t tasted the biscuit yet. The best way is to dip it into the tea, just for a second.”

  Samara picked up the biscuit like a forbidden fruit, taking in the smooth, cool surface. Then she dunked it into her tea and took a bite. It was everything she wanted—sweet and warm and irresistibly indulgent. She let her eyelids meet.

  “I’m glad you came in,” said Taye. “I usually wave at you, but you don’t see me. You always look a little…”

  “What?”

  He looked out the window, then leaned across the table to focus his eyes on hers. “Lost in thought. You had that look today, too. I thought you were going to pass by again.”

  The little woman from behind the counter was back now, this time with a miniature legal pad and a pen. “Hello, I’m Anna-Margaret.” She poised her pen. “What’s your name, please?”

  Samara looked from Taye to Anna-Margaret. “Hello, Anna-Margaret. I’m Samara.”

  “Some-ah-rah?” She gave the notepad a flabbergasted smile. “That’s quite…unique! How do you spell that?”

  “I’m sorry, Anna-Margaret. I promise I’ll come back in as soon as I can to pay you back for this.” Samara felt the heat of shame on her face as she glanced down at the half-eaten biscuit.

  “Oh? Oh—I’m not writing an IOU!” Anna-Margaret did a funny sort of laugh that sounded like she found Samara’s comment more sad than humorous.

  Taye leaned in again. “She’s writing our stories.”

  “Gonna put out a book about all of you.” Anna-Margaret nodded. “Taye tells me you’ve got a very interesting one, about watching a boy saw off his own hand. Just titillating! Tell me all about it.”

  A memory flashed without warning and she was suddenly there again, in the prison kitchen, watching the guards open a cupboard to discover Jude’s little hand inside. What he’d gone through, how he’d made the choice so quickly, she’d never understand. It wasn’t her story to tell. And it certainly wasn’t Anna-Margaret’s. The sweet smell was suddenly making Samara sick.

  “Excuse me,” she said and pressed her hands into the table to support herself as she stood. Anna-Margaret and Taye seemed to be talking about her, but all she cared about was feeling the familiar sting of cold on her face.

  Seconds after she left, she heard the bell’s jingle follow someone else out.

  “Hey!” Taye called. “Wait up.”

  Samara turned around. “How could you sell our stories? Jude’s story?”

  “I…I didn’t think it was a big deal!” He looked more sheepish than she’d ever seen him. “She’s just a nice lady who doesn’t have anything exciting in her life, so she wants—”

  “She wants fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “No—what?”

  “She’s writing a book.”

  “So?”

  “So people read books here.” Samara pointed down the street. “There’s a whole shop in this city that sells nothing but books, and people buy them.”

  Taye’s mouth curled. “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do. Some people even get famous for writing books. They get their pictures on the covers!”

  Taye threw his hands on top of his head and snickered. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Then see it. Come on.” Samara walked with heated purpose toward her favorite spot in Edinburgh. Taye, with his longer legs, easily kept up, though Samara became slightly winded from walking so quickly.

  Finally, it was in sight—a large blue building with black trim and wide windows displaying stacks of real, paper books, some as thick as her fist. In the United States, there were still a few flimsy notebooks around for people in real need of technology or in specialized professions, but hardly any books. There had been no need for books, because people did not read them. Samara had always been told that it was a waste of time—that people in the past didn’t get as much done in their daily lives because they had to sit and read to learn something. If she and her friends wanted to learn something, they’d do a quick search on their watches, speedily scan an article for relevant information, and be on their way.

  That was the world Taye was used to, too. Now he stared at the window, mouth open, in dumbstruck silence. Together, they watched an old man with a balding scalp and thick-rimmed glasses approach the counter with several books in his arms. He paid and left, nodding to them both as he hurried away.

  “It’s called a book shop. And people really read them. I’ve seen them.” She hugged her jacket a little more snugly to her chest. “But I think they do it for different reasons.
Some really want to learn, to connect. And others just want a little excitement in their lives. That’s what you’d be selling for chocolate biscuits.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, now you do. For the record, it’s fine with me if that’s the price for your stories. It’s none of my business. But don’t give them mine, or anyone else’s.”

  She walked away. After a few paces she allowed herself a look back and saw that Taye had walked inside the book shop. She smiled in spite of herself. Taye, charming and shameless, would probably return in a few hours with a bag full of free books. And she’d probably approach him after the news that evening to ask what he’d seen in there. But for now, she was exhausted by two arguments in less than twenty-four hours and let her mind rest while she walked, hoping, as always, to get herself lost.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the first time in his life, Jude could read faces. And he realized he’d been able to do it for a while now. It was like he’d been wearing sunglasses and had lost the lenses. The world was suddenly brighter and more colorful, but he wasn’t sure when it had happened because he was still wearing the frames.

  He scanned the room for Samara as his fellow refugees shuffled in, claiming their spots on the sofa, on the floor, leaning against walls, all facing the small television hanging from the ceiling. He kept his eyes focused on the doorway, aware of the pull of the TV, but stubbornly refusing to give it his attention just yet. All those food commercials only made him hungry and dissatisfied with the meals they were given here.

  Cork came bouncing in, a friendly recognition in his face.

  “What’s up, Reeder?” he asked as he took Samara’s spot next to him on the sofa.

  “Nothing.” He smiled back at him and gave him the now-customary little jab on his arm before Cork could do it first. “Have you seen Miss Shepherd?”

  “Nope.”

  This was another nice element about the TV; no longer did Jude have to awkwardly wait for conversations to end or think of something to say next. The mysterious allure of the current commercial had already pulled Cork in, abruptly ending the exchange. It was both similar and vastly different from the communication problems people had about their watches. Back in America, where everyone wore them, conversations were still common, but much slower. Someone would start to say something, then look at their watch to make sure their assertion was correct, then the second person would check too, and the rest of the conversation would be piecemeal, dragging on word by word until both were so absorbed in whatever they were looking at that it wasn’t crucial to continue talking anymore. Jude would often be the first to look at his watch in an attempt to get out of talking, if someone started a conversation with him at all. The only exception was his parents—they were always on their watches so much that it wasn’t even worth saying hello.

  Jude could also tell something was wrong with Samara as soon as she entered the room. He got up, nodding to an older woman to indicate she could have his spot on the sofa.

  Samara’s lips were badly chapped from her walk, and she bit the lower one as Jude approach her. “I’m sorry,” said Jude. “I tried to save your spot, but—”

  “It’s okay, Jude. I’m not mad at you.”

  Jude considered her a moment. It figures, he thought. Just when I thought I could see feelings.

  “I’m mad,” she continued, “at our situation.”

  “Mad at our situation?”

  “I’m mad that they tell us lies or nothing at all. I’m mad that we’re not in charge of our futures. I’m mad that our grandparents traded our freedom for convenience, mad that they couldn’t wake up long enough to make sure our lives were as independent as theirs had been.”

  Jude hated when adults talked like this, but Samara wasn’t a real adult. She was only seven years older than he was. Still, he didn’t like to think of himself as this scared and helpless seven years from now. He crept closer to her, cupped his hands around her ear and whispered, "The Red Sea is still alive.”

  Samara closed her eyes. “I hear that too, Jude, almost every day. That’s another thing I’m mad about—I can’t believe how much lack of real information makes me willing to believe these crazy theories. There is no Red Sea anymore. Metrics destroyed the safe houses; they destroyed the people in them. We’re all that’s left.”

  Jude shook his head and kept his gaze on his teacher’s face. “I need to show you something outside.”

  “Outside? Can it wait until after the broadcast?”

  Jude shook his head. “I think it’s better to do it during the news, since everyone will be in here and they won’t see us leave.”

  Samara groaned and touched a fingertip to her lips.

  What he needed to show her was only two blocks from Olympic Village, but it took them longer to walk than he thought—Samara lagged behind him. Still, what Jude needed to show her was something he couldn’t quite put into words, so he slowed his pace to match hers. Finally, they came to a small courtyard between two buildings. It was well-kept and manicured, and when he’d first seen it earlier that day, he’d taken it for a rich person’s mini-oasis amid the busy city life. Now, it was dark and there were no lights on, so the pristine grass and lush flowers were all shaded in dark. The only light came from the streetlights, which flooded the streets and overflowed just slightly into the courtyard. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see what they’d come for.

  Jude stopped in the very center of the garden, where a circle of stones enclosed some ashes. He pointed at the ground and looked at Samara. Samara studied it for a moment, and turned back to Jude. “What is this? It looks like a fire pit. Sometimes, people light fires for fun—”

  “This wasn’t like that. Look closer,” Jude said. “See that stalk? Earlier today, this was a bush.”

  “Someone set it on fire?”

  Jude nodded. A burning bush—he’d never seen a real one, but the phrase alone was code within the Red Sea. To see a burning bush was to inform others that help was near.

  The door to one of the buildings lining the garden creaked open, but the face behind it was hidden in the darkness. “Psst.”

  Jude caught his breath in his upper chest, but Samara took his hand and squeezed it. “We can’t see you,” she said to the crack.

  Instead of opening the door further, a hand snaked out of the opening and beckoned them inside. Jude looked again at the ashy stump and tugged at Samara’s hand. They walked together toward the door.

  Whoever had been at the door was gone now, and the door was just slightly ajar. Samara made a motion to walk in front of Jude to enter first, but Jude quickly moved so he’d be the first to go in. No sense losing one of their best minds for his mistake—she’d have time to run if things went wrong. They followed a narrow, dimly-lit corridor to another door, this one formidable, standing tall and thick with ornate flowers carved into the unpainted wood. As Jude reached for the brass knob, it turned on its own.

  A tall man in shirtsleeves and suspenders opened it, gave them a short appraising look, then smiled and opened the door wider. Jude let out a barking laugh to see who was sitting there.

  Bristol, Denver, Stephen, Taye, Nurse Sue, Karale, and Danovan were all seated in a mishmash of beautifully upholstered chairs and sofas among several other people whom Jude didn’t know. Although there was no fire in the fireplace, the low lights on the tables cast their faces in a stunning glow. The people Jude knew from the monastery suddenly appeared much different from how Jude remembered them; they were clean and on their way to being healthy, and they smiled beautifully and gave exclamations of welcome to see Jude and Samara.

  Bristol laughed and looked only at Jude. “The dream team,” he said.

  “What’s this?” asked Jude.

  The man in shirtsleeves picked up a glass of amber liquid from one of the side tables. “This is the Red Sea.” He brought the glass to his lips and took a surprisingly dainty sip for a man of his size. “Edinburgh chapter.”

 
Chapter Twenty

  “Of course, the relocation badly damaged the Red Sea in America.”

  “In America?” asked Samara. “Why would you need it anywhere else?”

  “Technically, the Red Sea is an international aid group.” The man was the only individual in the room whom Samara didn’t recognize. He spoke with an accent, but Samara’s ears seemed to mold around the words easier. Maybe she was getting used to the new sounds. “We give money to countries in need.”

  “Wouldn’t the government get that money, then?” she asked.

  “Not necessarily,” said the man, who, now that Samara had a closer view of him, had visible tattoos running out from his sleeves onto his arms, hands, and fingers. More tattoos sprang up from his neck to the base of his skull. She could only guess at the multitude he had hidden under his shirt. “If we think the government is oppressing the people, the money goes to the rebels. There was a big rebel network in America, but they didn’t have a name for themselves. So they just started calling themselves after their benefactors.”

  “Is the Red Sea still giving money to the rebels in America?”

  The man looked at her, surprised. “Sadly, no. Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  Kareale drew herself up tall. “We were the last undiscovered camp. Say what you want about our leadership, but we kept you alive.”

  Danovan closed his eyes. “Please.”

  The man in the shirtsleeves just smiled wide. “Why not? Whatever happened when you were there, it’s over now. And you lived to see the other side!”

  Kareale’s chunky sweater sagged from her shoulders and her collarbone could be seen from just above the neckline, but still she pressed her lips together as if willing herself to feel pride in what she had done. Samara considered her. Just a few weeks ago, she would have balked at the idea of calling her an effective leader. But they had all survived; was it luck, or did Samara and the others have Karaele, Danovan, and Tommy to thank? Was there truly a way of keeping people both free and safe?