The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

Ready to lift the basket and move on, she discovered a big, deeply red, perfectly ripened apple that had been placed carefully and almost artistically at the top of her pile of regular apples—small, anemic in color, and slightly dry and shriveled. It was worth a few snapshots . . . and then a bite.

  Oh my, it was delicious . . . and urged her to devour the apple by mouthfuls that almost caught in her throat.

  Where had it come from? She wasn’t the one who had picked it. She would have remembered.

  While eating the apple nearly to the core, Blasphemy began wandering. Was it Gospel? Was he out there somewhere? Watching her?

  A twig snapped. She looked in that direction. Nothing. Grass rustled behind her. She turned. Just the wind.

  Giving up, she returned to her basket. Then, between trees and out of the corner of her eye . . . a flash of black.

  “Freak,” she muttered under breath. She wasn’t kidding but found herself hiding a show of amusement with the back of her hand as she reached for the basket’s handle.

  If she believed the rumors, Gospel was a freak and he was dangerous. He was like a magician when it came to combustion and kinetics and he had no qualms about using logic and practicality to make a statement.

  In one story—though not directly from the source—he ignited his old headmaster on fire while the man was naked and secured to his bed with the mattress’ own wires. And despite Gospel’s modest physique, he was allegedly still feisty in a fight, especially when cornered. Again, not a direct source, but she also heard that he once ripped out an Authority Figure’s carotid artery with only his fingernails. Those were just two of the stories. Probably the worst of them, but still! They went on and on.

  Blasphemy felt it safe to assume his “victims” weren’t really victims at all. As a result, she had no problem sleeping with her eyes closed with him nearby. And for whatever reason, Gospel actually seemed to like her . . . in his odd way. Plus, he had proven himself loyal to The Chronicles. He was there, wasn’t he? He joined them on the island even though he was capable of taking care of himself back in Portsmith. Even during The Purge.

  There were even times he seemed scared of her. Whenever they stumbled across each other in close quarters, it was there, plain as day, right in his wide eyes.

  Her gut told her that she would have to do something really awful to turn him against her . . . or anyone else on staff for that matter.

  And so, his special attention, since he interacted with essentially no one else, was admittedly flattering. But it wasn’t as if she wanted to encourage the behavior. She had her chance . . . once, to be the girl someone might want. And someone once did. But that didn’t end well.

  When Bearing Age was through for her in less than two years—or if caught by the Authorities for any reason prior to that—she would become Fallow regardless of whether or not she had a man in her life willing to say, “I do.” That’s because she wasn’t a virgin—something the doctors commissioned by the Authorities would confirm before issuing a Marriage Bond. And if, say, by divine intervention, her anatomy didn’t give her away, her illegitimate daughter surely would. She didn’t want Gospel—or anyone—to get involved, to defend her, or take the fall for her.

  It was her burden to carry. She was ready for it. And had finally made peace with it. She only wished that she could find a way to save her daughter from the same fate. She wasn’t even a year old. Infants weren’t known to survive the worst of “Penance,” at least not well or without complications.

  She’ll die or lead a whole life as a Fallow . . . and I’ll never get to see her again. . . .

  Out of nowhere, there was the influx of tears to her eyes. Clutching the locket at her neck, baby Hannah’s picture kept close to her heart, Blasphemy found the perspective that had been wavering. I will not cry. She was a valued part of a team for the first time ever, and she was there for a reason.

  And then something caught her attention. A voice. A man’s. But whose?

  “Gospel?” she spun around to ask the trees in a loud whisper. “Is that you?”

  Two people crested over a hill at a not-so-far distance. She had to peer through the fog for a second. Once their identities were confirmed—Captain with Virtue—her stomach flipped. And her lungs went closed after she silenced a gasp.

  She wasn’t supposed to be out there during daylight hours. The orchard was too close to the Captain’s estate. He had wives, children, business associates. Someone might see her.

  Blasphemy began backing into some branches. Then, suddenly, she was tugged backward by the waist and with a hand over her mouth.

  She may have screamed had the hand not been there. But she lost the urge once she was face to face with Gospel, one finger to his lips.

  Be very quiet, he urged silently, his body rigid and intense, especially his eyes, a wild coal-black in the deep shade of the tree they were now beneath.

  Perhaps sensing that she got the message, his posture relaxed and he dropped his hand from her mouth.

  As quietly as she could, she tried to catch her breath just as Captain and Virtue were about to walk by.

  “Some of my children sell the apples at harvest time,” Captain explained to Virtue.

  His hand smoothed its way across Virtue’s hip. Her hands remained taut and folded by her stomach. She was either cold or uncomfortable. Probably both.

  “My older daughters make pies and baked goods. Then, whatever profits they earn at the marketplace, I let them keep. It’s a lesson learned. And for that, they can reap the rewards of their own work ethic.”

  Once they moved out of view, Gospel scowled with clear disgust. Then he put his hands in a rectangle by his face. He mimicked the clicking of the camera.

  “I left it back at the—” Blasphemy began to mouth.

  Before she could finish by saying “basket,” Gospel had pulled her camera out from beneath his trench coat.

  How does he do that?

  “He reeks of . . . something,” Gospel said softly . . . in actual spoken words.

  “Besides the obvious?” she grumbled back, taking her camera, wondering if she could somehow catch on film the terror in Virtue’s eyes.

  “It’s bigger than that.” With a wave for her to follow, Gospel led her into the grassy aisle that was parallel to the one Virtue and Captain were traversing. As he swiftly moved across a patch of fallen apples, she tried to follow his silent footfalls. “There’s a story here. I can almost taste it,” he informed her when their backs were safely pressed against a broad tree trunk.

  “Okay?”

  At that, it was officially the longest conversation she had ever had with Gospel.

  And despite her better judgement, she continued to follow him. He insisted that she tag along by staying in her sight and then stopping every so often to look back for her. He’d even use exaggerated hand motions to get her to hurry. She could only hope that he knew what he was doing and this was more than just some hunch.

  Because whatever Captain was up to, it wasn’t likely he’d want witnesses . . . especially with a camera in tow.

  Chapter 4

  Virtue

  Virtue did as she was told. If ever put in a difficult spot like this again, that’d be the first thing she would change.

  Captain suddenly took her by the hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “This must be so overwhelming for you.”

  There it was again. He had an air of condescension in his attempts at flattery and in every assessment of the emotion she must be consumed by.

  Or maybe she was the one making assumptions. Just because she was cold and unenthused about revisiting the places she had already beheld in a much better light, that didn’t give her the right. And besides, in terms of being overwhelmed, he hadn’t misjudged her.

  More than you know.

  Rather than say the words, she smiled softly and peeled her hand free. She moved to a better vantage point. “It is. I haven’t seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful in all of my years.”


  They were on a hill overlooking a freshwater stream. She climbed to its peak. She could now see over the grassy embankment on the other side of the stream. It dropped off to the sand. At high tide, it met with the outer edge of the ocean’s surf.

  When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the chill of it on her toes again. And the accompanying heat that was once pressed against her bare back.

  “Neither have I,” he said, jarring her from her reverie.

  Captain’s arm brushed hers as he retook her side. His stare was burning into the corner of her eye. In his way that was both forward and indirect, he managed to call her beautiful.

  She shuddered off the warmth of the memory and found her good sense. Her eyes flit to his for a moment and she bowed her head to show her appreciation.

  But Captain’s mouth quirked downward. As if unsatisfied with just a show, he tugged her into his arms. His hands roamed to her neck. They fondled her cheeks and wisps of hair. And then his head moved in.

  She had no choice. No say. No immediate way out. His kiss was invasive and sour. Perhaps he was trying to be firm and resolute, but Virtue found herself struggling for breath.

  With a small push against his chest, she finally broke free. “I’d . . . like to get a better look.”

  She scuttled off to the only place Captain would be unlikely to follow her. The stream.

  Kicking off her shoes, she waded in. The glacial burn helped stay her tears.

  And she tried to channel her senses outward—the misty ocean swell, the gulls, the scent of brine—and yet a tear or two slipped away from her anyway. I’m doing this for you. For us. I hope you understand.

  Her wish upon the breeze.

  “It’d be a whole lot prettier standing there if the sun was out,” Captain chided from the edge of the stream. “And a heck of a lot warmer too.”

  Captain had no way of knowing how right he was.

  ***

  It was a day of firsts. Maybe it wasn’t their first day on the island, but it was the first warm day. A true gift for mid-October in the Maineland. The gods must have been smiling upon them.

  Bathing in the stream wasn’t a chore to hurry through, their teeth chattering the whole time. Instead, Virtue was with Doxy, Parody, and Blasphemy, and they were all shin-deep in the stream and content that way. And no one seemed too phased by the fact that they were wearing little more than their underwear. Except Virtue—younger, less worldly wise, and slightly more reserved than her companions—was only bare to her thighs. Over her most intimates, she also had on a button-up blouse, which she needed to wash anyway. Admittedly, though, it wasn’t supplying much in the way of extra cover. It was damp and just shy of see-through.

  “Pause and look interesting,” Blasphemy called out, backing up, her camera to her face.

  Unashamed of her Fallow persona and always one for making any moment “art,” Doxy draped an arm over Parody’s shoulder and looked theatrically into the distance. Meanwhile, Virtue tucked herself under Parody’s other arm. She realized how short and curvy she was compared to the two of them, which was pretty much a given for anyone.

  Doxy and Parody were a wispy, delicate, eye-drawing display of skin and bones. If it wasn’t for the piercings and tattoos, they’d look like the ballerinas Virtue used to read about in her storybooks. Beautiful, each in their own way. Doxy was fair-skinned with auburn hair, freckles, and she had striking hazel eyes, and Parody was the only person of Asian descent that Virtue had ever met. Diversity in Portsmith, whether it was in regard to heritage or ideas, was something their leaders frowned upon. In their roundabout, pious way, they sought to eradicate it.

  Virtue casually crossed her arm over her chest to avoid showing the world too much. Then with Parody leaning in, they did their best to look “interesting” for the camera.

  After that was all said and done, the camera was abandoned by their blankets and clothing. And then warmer and a tad braver, the four of them ventured into the deepest part of the stream. The water fell just below Virtue’s bust.

  “Did you really get into it with Law?” Blasphemy suddenly asked Doxy, picking up an old conversation where it had left off.

  Doxy let out an exasperated moan. “That man could spend hours arguing about arguing.”

  “That’s not what she meant,” Parody teased with a small push. The two of them had known each other for so long they acted like sisters.

  Doxy feigned innocence. Her hand went to her collarbone and her mouth purse was as good as an admission. “Hasn’t everybody of the female persuasion?” She lifted a hand and her brash eyes to heaven.

  “Nay,” said Parody.

  “Not I,” Blasphemy piped up too.

  Doxy gave everyone a little shrug. “What can I say? He claimed he’d never gotten with a Fallow before—which I find very hard to believe. But, playing along, I said he didn’t know what he was missing. ‘Looks painful,’ he said, circling his lips with his finger, referring to my lovely lips, of course.” Doxy puckered her mouth, flaunting the studs lining her upper and lower lip, part of the Fallow procedure meant to keep “honest and devout” men away from temptation. “Not if you know how to use them,” Doxy prattled on. “And let’s just say he was willing—for once—to be proven wrong.”

  She lifted a gloating eyebrow and then sighed, already over it, and ran a handful of water through her spiky hair, too overgrown to pass as appropriate by Fallow standards. But as long as she avoided her job assignment and the Authorities in general, she’d only have to obey if someone cared enough to detain her, which didn’t happen very often . . . not for a hair violation, anyway. For the prostitution or the words she’d put to paper, however. . .

  Doxy then yawned and stretched her long and lean body up toward the bright midday sun. “And what about you, Virtue?” Her lax arm swung down to give Virtue a splash. “You’re awfully quiet over there.”

  “Law?” Virtue asked to confirm, surprised they were paired together in anyone’s mind at all. “It’s not like that.”

  “The way he looks at you. . .” Doxy pressed her dubious lips together. “It’s not like he’d say no.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “Only because Herald would kill him,” Blasphemy cut in, elbowing Virtue in the side.

  How did she know that? They had been so careful. So painstakingly discreet at night to the point it was frustrating for them both.

  Perhaps it was obvious, though, especially for someone with an eye like Blasphemy’s. It was possible everyone else had seen it coming as well. For as long as Virtue had been around, the joke was on her. She was Herald’s favorite on staff. And maybe that was always true, but she didn’t want people to assume it was for any reason other than her writing.

  “What?” Parody shrieked. “Why am I always the last one to know these things?”

  Doxy pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, to have Virtue’s problems!”

  Virtue was then bombarded with questions, interest, teasing, too rapid in succession for her to entertain, even if she had the inclination.

  Blasphemy: “Not so quick to deny that one, are you?”

  Parody: “What’s he like? Is he any good?”

  Doxy: “He seems like he’d be clumsy and a tad dull.”

  Blasphemy: “I don’t think so. He’s probably passionate in all that he pursues.”

  They were trying to get Virtue to give something away. Some juicy and titillating morsel to savor. She didn’t confirm or deny anything, but she could hardly contain her amusement. Maybe they didn’t figure out exactly what was going on, but they certainly were able to determine the with whom.

  Perhaps they would have been willing to move on to another culprit, or man, or gossip-worthy encounter. But they missed the opportunity when someone crested over the hill behind them.

  Herald. He strolled closer, his hands in his pockets, but he took one out to wave. “Hello ladies. Don’t worry.” He smiled and covered his eyes. “I’m not looking.”
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br />   Doxy then draped her arm around Virtue and whispered in her ear. “He sure doesn’t let you out of his sight for long.”

  “He doesn’t let any of us out of his sight.”

  “That’s because we’re usually with you.”

  Doxy let go of her. And just as Herald settled down on the bank, taking a seat on a boulder, Doxy began trudging into shallower water. “Herald!”

  His eyes widened once he realized she was only wearing skimpy black tatters that would barely qualify as underwear.

  “Yes?”

  Doxy reached for his hands. “Come in with us.”

  He waved to decline. “I’m fine here.”

  “Aw, that’s no fun.” She tugged at his bicep. “And you’re not going to get away with that.”

  Parody had to join in before any progress was made. Since Herald was no weakling, Parody had to hit a pressure point by his elbow to get his feet to move.

  “Ow, ow, ow! I have something in my pocket!” Herald informed them, forced to stumble along. He at least managed to kick off his shoes in the struggle.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “My watch,” he defended himself. “And some of my notes!” He removed a wad of paper from his pocket to further vouch for his integrity.

  “Well, take ‘em off!”

  “My pants?”

  When the question was met with two amused stares, he sighed and began unlatching his belt with his free hand.

  Once the pants dropped to his ankles, Herald tripped over them and didn’t even have a chance to reach for his shirt buttons before he was knee deep in water. “It’s cold!” he said, tossing Virtue a pained and pleading look.

  With a few buttons undone at the neck, he was able to pull his dress shirt over his head. He rolled it into a ball and chucked it on the bank.

  Seeing Herald exposed down to his undershorts in broad daylight . . . it was another first for Virtue.

  Doxy didn’t exactly fail to notice, either. In fact, she closed in on him and gave his abdomen a backhanded slap. “Look at you! You actually have some brawn under there.”