The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  “And what about you?” Herald continued, his glare and an accusing hand both pointed at Law. “What have you learned from Barrett that’s worthy of emulation, Mr. High and Mighty? The descendant of none other than Joshua Braintree himself!”

  “As if you have the grounds to lecture me, Professor. You have Brothers of God in your line.”

  “But not the one and only Redeemer!” Herald mocked back. “And that’s beside the point. So, anyway, for the record, counsellor, exactly how many throats have you slit lately?”

  “What does that—?”

  “How MAN-Y?”

  Law gulped down the last of his coffee and set his cup down with a smile. He was all right with letting Herald win once in a while. It was healthy for their professional relationship.

  “Ah. Zero. Just as I expected. You’re all this.” Herald flapped his hand open and closed, mimicking too much chatter. “But never any follow through, either.”

  The barista suddenly emerged from behind Herald, catching him off guard, enough for a slight jolt. They never knew who might appear behind them while they were debating each other a bit too emphatically.

  “More coffee?”

  Herald lifted his cup. “Please.”

  She poured it for him. Herald set the cup down, and his eyes, which never met hers, drifted back to the papers he was tugging closer. He jotted down a note in the margin, making it all too clear that he just wanted the girl to be somewhere else.

  And then the barista’s gaze met Law’s. He was ready for it with direct eye contact and a pleasant visage. Even though the girl looked tough and surly with an air of impatience, she still managed to blush in response.

  “I was on my way out, but sure. Twist my arm.”

  Happy to oblige, she poured the coffee. Meanwhile, Law busied himself figuring her out, which took him no more than an instant or two. She was probably within Bearing Age, not Fallow, but her tattoos, dark attire, and piercings were slightly misleading, perhaps intentionally. The next place to check was the ring finger—simple silver band with two notches—so the second wife of a pauper. She would therefore need some form of employment. And though this girl was attractive in her prickly sort of way, Law had no problem dismissing the idea immediately. She wasn’t his type.

  He didn’t ever want his own wife; he preferred to borrow . . . often. He opted for the ones with gigantic diamonds on their fingers and wedding bands with multiple notches. That meant they were desperate for attention but had much to lose. And for Law—a smooth-talking, irresistibly good-looking revolutionary—married women were such easy conquests. As an added bonus, they were usually well-groomed and voluptuous, and generally kept their mouths shut, before the affairs, during, and the inevitable after. For his own benefit, he would never linger with one woman for very long. Goodbyes tended to get ugly the longer he waited, to the point tears, dangerous words, or blood were at risk of spilling. He loved women, but he was a survivor and didn’t intend to change his ways for a place that didn’t deserve it.

  With the barista, Law exchanged a few quips, and then she strutted off with the almost-empty coffee pot in hand and a rhythmic hip swing. Not a bad sight, but. . .

  At Herald’s groan of disgust, Law’s concentration zoomed to the street as well. A man in a grimy suit, almost as wide as he was tall, was passing by. In his pudgy hands were the backsides of two young women, presumably his wives, and they were almost identical in their plainness . . . and discontent. A long procession of little boys and girls, and women of all ages followed behind them. It was as if daughters and wives were one and the same. He was probably fornicating with them all! Since most of them were practically in rags, it was all too obvious where this man was investing his meager earnings. And there was only one word that aptly described the image he depicted . . . grotesque.

  And then Herald, distracted, took a gulp of his coffee . . . and abruptly had to spit it out.

  “That Fat Poly,” he sputtered out, as if it were the man in the street’s fault that Herald had scorched his tongue.

  Law merely lifted an amused eyebrow as if to say, “Mind if I have that one?”

  Herald, still recovering from the pain, swept his hand up as if to reply, “If you can make something of it, it’s all yours.”

  Not long after, “Fat Poly” made its way into print. Sketch after sketch, Parody illustrated it. Blasphemy took black and white pictures of it. Both Law and Gospel had a field day with the concept. And much to every polygamous man’s dismay, the insult became part of Portsmith’s vernacular. The poor threw it at the rich. Angry wives hurled it at their greedy husbands. The rich at their enemies. It was a phenomenon that had the potential to change their culture.

  But, first things first. Herald’s worldview was about to change too.

  “So, who did you say you were meeting with today?”

  Law sipped his coffee carefully while he watched Herald’s knee bob up and down about a thousand times per minute. He kept switching between checking his pocket watch and looking over his shoulder.

  With a yawn, Herald then rubbed a hand over his eyes and face. The poor kid, six years his junior, needed to lay off the coffee and sleep once in a while. Better yet, he could stand to lighten up on the morals and take on a lover or two.

  “It’s. . .” Herald shook his head as if troubled by something. This meeting, whoever it was with, was clearly not one he was looking forward to. “I’m supposed to meet the daughter of a colleague of mine. She came across an old copy of The Chronicles, one that her father had contributed to, and she’s allegedly determined to write for us. She wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Her father wouldn’t allow it, but she threatened to go hunting for me on her own if he didn’t assist her. So . . . he reached out to me. And begged me to meet with her under the condition that I give her some good advice and then let her down easy,” he finished solemnly while fiddling with the corner of the manuscript at the top of his pile, one with pretty, feminine handwriting.

  Law snatched the paper-clipped pile out of Herald’s flimsy hold and began leafing through it. “She any good?”

  “Yes,” Herald replied, his tone much brighter. “I was very surprised. Home schooled, never went to the University. And only nineteen years old.” He shrugged, the solemnity back in his posture. “I wish I had space for her. And money,” he added dryly, his eyebrows bobbing once. “And it would have been nice if I wasn’t put in such an awkward position.”

  “You could have said no,” Law commented, matter-of-factly, while reading through a short paragraph. She was good. As he flipped to the last page, he noticed the paper was a little warped, the ink slightly smeared. And he held it up to Herald, his jaw open. “Are these tear stains?” he said loud enough to catch a few glances from tables nearby.

  “What? No!” Herald squinted at the evidence, blushed, and then snatched the manuscript back. And Law stared at him, stone-faced, just waiting for Herald to notice. When Herald finally did, his eyes dropped again almost immediately. “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “Are you aware that you’re a terrible liar?”

  Law finished the last of his now lukewarm coffee, but his gape never wandered from the truth written all over Herald’s face.

  Eventually, Herald sighed with admission. “It was devastating. Are you satisfied? It’s about an idealistic young man who had his lover plucked right from his bed by the Authorities. And his father was the one who had turned them in. Struck me to the core.”

  Law did, indeed, have something in common with Herald—daunting, unresolved father conflict. Mother conflict too, for that matter. Between the two of them, it was hard to decide who had it worse. They both had fathers who wished them dead. And Law’s mother was essentially murdered by his father; Herald’s mother had turned her back on him.

  Ain’t love grand?

  Law could only respond to it all with a caustic chuckle. If this girl was even half as pretty as her handwriting would suggest, Herald was already in some deep
trouble. And the sad thing was, he was too witless about affairs of the heart to even realize it.

  And despite his best intentions, Law found himself looking at each passerby with newfound dedication. But he was leaning against the wall again, much more relaxed than Herald was—antsy and still fidgeting up a storm.

  “How will you be able to spot her?”

  “A red scarf and her father’s copy of The Crucible in tow,” was Herald’s reply.

  “Classic,” Law chided, and just as he said the word Herald’s eyes went stunned to full wide.

  Once he narrowed in on what Herald saw first—a nervous, out-of-place, doe-eyed blonde with a thin red scarf tied to the end of her braid. She had a tattered book from the Dark Times pressed to her lean body and ample chest.

  And the face of an angel.

  Law could no longer help himself. He openly laughed and then stood to leave.

  “Let her down easy, eh?” he said, slapping Herald hard on the back. “Good luck with that.”

  It took Herald a second to return to reality, and when he did, he shot Law a dry look that said, “Very funny, but weren’t you just leaving?”

  Law had every intention to, but not before he took it upon himself to break the ice for his exceedingly reserved friend. “I’m Law, and this is Herald, who I’m sure requires no introduction. . .” The girl beamed at Herald as if he walked on water, and he humbly received it with a quick flicker of appreciation and a nod. “And you must be—?”

  Herald interrupted with a “tsk,” and a reminder, “No real names.”

  “That means you get to choose,” Law informed her. “One word, right now, that sums up you and all that you stand for.”

  “Virtue,” she answered immediately with a fetching little grin. It was as if she was expecting that question and already had something picked out. She had done her homework and knew exactly how the Verity writers maintained their persona as well as their anonymity.

  “Naturally,” Law teased while shaking her hand. “It’s so very nice to meet you, Virtue. And now I will leave you in Herald’s very capable hands.”

  As he walked off, he caught the plea and desperation in Herald’s eyes. The “What do I do?” and the “Don’t leave me alone with her!”

  And yet Law began his determined-to-travel-unnoticed stride up the cobblestone, his collar up, his gaze to the ground. He didn’t have to slow down or look back to know that Herald was probably committing The Chronicles to an extra page of print and determining how much to dock his own pay to accommodate his new hire.

  Not more than a minute later, though, Law considered turning back. Because he felt the dread creeping in. Getting a girl like Virtue involved in their illegal literary transgressions was altogether unethical. It was no joking matter. The only decent approach to her inquiry would have been, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  But he wasn’t in charge. Law was the take-charge type in general, but he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. Not with Herald.

  Even so, Law couldn’t shake off the worry. True, Herald wasn’t a typical young man, but he was a man nonetheless. He had his basic needs and weaknesses just like everyone else did. And he’d been living so long without much more than a pen in his hand, the shirt on his back, and lots and lots of cheap coffee.

  Would he be levelheaded and assertive enough to say no to her?

  Come to find out, Herald was not. And by the time Law had a chance to advise against it, Virtue was already preparing her first story for print and Herald . . . well . . .

  He would have never openly admitted to anything, but even the day following, Law could tell Herald was already too far gone.

  ***

  My, how the tables had turned.

  Law was now the one playing nice, conducting the meeting, and massaging Captain’s ego. He smiled, rattled off facts and figures, and knew exactly who to call on for the most relevant personal anecdote.

  And that’s why they had come together. To get to know each other. So Captain could finally put everyone’s pen-names to their faces. If he knew them as people first, even the Fallow, then he might continue to protect them and make financial contributions into the next year.

  Even with his mind half in the present, half in the past, Law had no issue faking his way through Herald’s job. The only difference was that Herald never faked a thing. He didn’t know how to. He said what he meant and believed in it all. Or did.

  Now that he no longer had faith in the goodness of man, he was leaning on the sill of an ocean-side window, his back turned. The only sign that he was listening to every word, especially delivered by the Captain, was the tension in his spine and an occasional soft groan of disagreement. But he never looked back or joined them in any way. He couldn’t. At least he realized that the anger emanating from him was best kept in relative seclusion. But it hardly mattered. It was still pressing down on everyone in the room.

  It soon became clear that Captain had no interest in anyone other than Virtue. As much as Law tried to maintain the flow of the meeting, it was coming to a screeching halt sooner than expected.

  “Virtue, my dear,” Captain said, helping her to her feet by the hand. His croon was a gut-churning attempt at sensitivity. “I would very much like you to join me for a tour of the island. Afterwards, it would be an honor if you could join me and my family for a luncheon feast.”

  Captain did not present a question. It was all a bold statement disguised as a humble request.

  “Well. . .” Virtue began tentatively. While she was wringing her fingers against her wool skirt, she sought Herald’s eyes.

  His back was still turned. He did not bother to look. Maybe he wanted her to make her own decision. And yet he wasn’t standing there in a way that would have been considered neutral. In fact, the animosity seemed to crawl from his spine to his neck. He rolled his head back and forth, shrugged his shoulders, and then Law heard his knuckles crack.

  And it appeared Virtue expected more from him. Her face fell. Then, almost in a blip of terror, her eyes shot to Law.

  It was a sticky situation. Captain had their genitalia in his avaricious hands. Law didn’t blame her for seeking a second opinion.

  Law reluctantly gave her a nod. Go.

  “I suppose that would be all right,” Virtue answered sweetly, her smile there to convince everyone that she believed her choice was the safest one and that everything would be fine.

  Captain set his hand on her shoulder, his fingers bold enough to massage the whole area. He guided her to the stairway that led to the beach.

  Meanwhile, Herald pushed from the window and charged toward the stairs leading up to the lantern room, his gait fast and audibly heavy as he climbed.

  Law closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to release his own tension. And that was all he allowed himself. The next thing he did was emit a quick, high-pitched whistle.

  Gospel was in a relaxed position against the wall, adjusting his black trench coat, probably about to take a mid-morning nap. He was like a bat in speed and stealth, and that also meant he was nocturnal to the extreme. But he lifted a tired eyebrow at Law’s attempt to get his attention.

  Law snapped his head toward the doorway leading out of the lighthouse.

  And Gospel received the message with a slow blink, which was his way of nodding. The orphan genius didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss a trick. And moments later, he was on his feet and out the door like a tempestuous breeze.

  He’d do the task and do it well.

  Follow her.

  Chapter 3

  Blasphemy

  If Blasphemy could avoid eating another apple again, she’d be grateful. And she used to like apples.

  Below her shawl, she shivered. The cold of October had really settled in. And as much as she wished to curl up with her pen and journal back by the fire, she had to return to the orchard if she wanted to make the hunger pains go away. She didn’t have much of an appetite for moldy bread, all that was available for
breakfast back at the lighthouse.

  Captain didn’t bother to resupply their reserves. She couldn’t say she was surprised. . . .

  There were ways to sustain themselves without his assistance. She preferred land over sea, though, and that drove her inland.

  The orchard of “Orchard Island” was nestled in a valley. The trees were a shade of brownish-gold. During her other apple-retrieving endeavors, she had been snapping a few photographs if the inspiration was there and the lighting was decent.

  Blasphemy currently had her camera around her neck, never knowing when a picture—or an idea for a project—may reveal itself. But today wasn’t turning out to be that day.

  And with each day that passed, the fruit was becoming more and more past peak. Her search through the branches wasn’t particularly fruitful and it was accompanied by the smell of rot, made worse by the dampness of the morning.

  A relatively clear dawn had become overcast in the time she had been gone. In the fog that had settled in, it took a few extra minutes, but she eventually found the half-full basket she had abandoned earlier.

  Herald had requested they return for their morning meeting at promptly half past eight. Blasphemy had no way of knowing the time for certain. At a flicker of black between branches, followed by a whistle that started low and swooped high—a rare instance, indeed, for Gospel to reveal he was lurking nearby—Blasphemy realized she’d better abandon their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The basket was too heavy to jog with. And if Gospel was the one reminding her to leave for the meeting, that was a bad sign. Because Gospel was never on time for anything. He was always too busy doing whatever it was that he did. And what was that exactly?

  One could only guess.

  She gave the grove in her vicinity one last survey. Picked over branches, worm holes, apples that squished beneath her feet.