The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  “Are you always this. . . ?”

  With his eyes pinched shut again—she was too close for comfort—he exhaled slowly through his nose, making the effort to stay still and calm. At last, he had grown accustomed to the sting. Her existence, however, would require discipline he didn’t yet have. “Skittish?” he answered for her.

  “I was going to say nervous.”

  “No,” he said, part laugh, part sigh.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Why? What have you heard?

  He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. “I’m having an off day. Forgive me. I haven’t had any food today or much water. And I drank too much last night.”

  He winced. Did I really just admit that?

  “That’ll do it,” she commented dryly, her slight smile, a bit righteous.

  Although it had him riled up initially, it was more humbling than anything else.

  “I know. It was stupid. I don’t usually. Not anymore. Well, it had been a while. . .” He was both rambling and lying. On a bad day—and there had been many—liquor was more than just a crutch. And since he fell and cracked his head open, it wasn’t helping him move forward on his own two feet, so to say. “But I was in a situation I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. I should have been dead. But I was alive and punishing myself for it. I realize . . . I should have told you. I would have done it anyway. Gave Gospel my blood. I’m not going to let the kid suffer just because I’ve made poor choices.”

  She nodded once, like she was only half listening. And he didn’t blame her. He wasn’t making a lot of sense. And rather than impart her professional opinion—alcoholic, dimwit, madman—she added gauze, tape, and then stood, keeping her diagnosis simple. “You’ll need a couple of stitches.” She patched up his arm too with tape and gauze—the tear wasn’t terrible—and then evaluated the bag of blood he supplied. “Looks pretty full. Nice work,” she stated without much more than a glance back at him.

  “Thanks,” he murmured as she practically sprinted in the opposite direction, his blood now in her possession.

  At least he was good for something.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” Bernie called from the door. “Please. Stay here. I’m spread a little thin. I don’t need any more injuries.”

  He nodded, and it was painful to accept how right she was. He was a disaster waiting to happen and he didn’t even have a good excuse.

  “I’ll send in something to settle your system.”

  At that, she left him alone with his humiliation. Some first impression. . .

  Did he care? After they were out of her hair, they’d probably never see her again. For some reason, though, that didn’t feel true. Maybe he didn’t want it to be true. She had helped them so much. But what would she need them for? Hope? It seemed too much of a longshot to claim they were the way and the light.

  She’d be better off taking matters into her own hands.

  Though it took a while, Bernie was true to her word. She sent in a nurse with some crackers, an apple, and a large glass of water. And he followed the doctor’s orders. He consumed everything, although his stomach had trouble deciding whether or not to accept or reject. In a battle of wills with his body, he did his part to feel better. And he stayed put, and so did the food, thank the Redeemer!

  Once that was all said and done, he didn’t mind being alone with his thoughts in a quiet place, somewhat removed from Herald’s angst and the coming and going of the clinic. There was radiator heat, no dust, rats, or bars, and his chair was at least padded. And with his head resting upon his arms and the desk, he even dozed off. For the first time in a while, he didn’t have to feel guilty about that.

  When Bernie finally returned to put in those stitches, it was well into the night. He was awake again, but probably slept for a few solid hours. His mood and general wellbeing had vastly improved. He almost felt like himself again.

  “So, what’s your story?” he asked, almost as soon as Bernie rolled over her desk chair.

  She put gloves on. It wasn’t the first time he noticed her wedding rings. It was, however, his first close look.

  After removing the gauze from his head, she began cleaning and anesthetizing the wound. “What makes you think there’s a story?”

  He was spilling his soul earlier and she was being deliberately evasive. And that brought a gleam of confidence to her face.

  “There has to be a story. You’re a doctor!”

  “So?” she asked, setting up her suturing needle.

  “There’s only one medical school.”

  “Fort Braintree.”

  “I’m aware. And they only accept like, what? Twenty people a year?”

  She moved right up close, startling him again. But she only had eyes for blood and gore. “I had a class of ten.”

  “Right.” He cringed with the opposite eye when the needle made contact with his skin. It didn’t hurt much. Whatever she injected had minimized the pain, but there was still something unsettling about the whole thing. “And it’s hard to believe that your grades and experience mattered one iota. We live in the most misogynistic place in human history!”

  And that diamond ring on your finger is so damn big, I saw my reflection, he thought, but had the good sense not to add. Was that a factor?

  She shrugged and it didn’t slow down her needlework. “Well, my father was a doctor. Many of my brothers and even a few of my sisters went into the sciences. Many of them have Ph.Ds, including the man you know as ‘Corollary.’ And my husband was an M.D.”

  “Was?”

  The word flew out. She heard it all right, and probably knew exactly why he was asking. But she was a professional and her face was like porcelain. Gorgeous. It gave him the urge to stroke it. To bring some expression to it! Because the way it was at that moment—steady with concentration—it didn’t give a damn thing away. She wasn’t going to make her personal life available for his consumption, not even inadvertently.

  She was playing the mysterious card, the one he used with married women while they cried over their many woes, and she was beating him at his own game. She was going to take everything he knew about women and give him the exact opposite.

  Fate had a lot of explaining to do. Like for instance, when would it stop fucking with his head?

  If Law was a betting man, he’d put money on the likelihood that she’d change the subject. Because that’s what he would do!

  “How’d you get involved in the movement?”

  Why did he have to be right?

  He was about to point that out. Nice move. But then her gaze flicked over to his with what appeared to be genuine interest. He buckled immediately. “My dead mother had something to do with it.”

  “The one you gave blood for. What was it? Thalassemia?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “It’s not as rare as it should be around here.” She wasn’t going to gloat, but if it was a “guess,” it was a highly educated one.

  “And then I met Herald,” he went on, deliberately editing out his father’s role. Who had time to get into that? “He came to one of my rallies. Afterwards, we started talking. He inherited The Verity Chronicles from his colleagues at Portsmith University. He was looking to expand upon it and wanted to include new voices. We became friends. I started writing regularly. And here we are today. Is it true you follow our work?”

  “Religiously,” she admitted.

  “Is that right?” He kept his face as level and composed as he was capable, even though that was exactly what he wanted to hear. “If you don’t mind me asking, who’s your favorite writer?”

  Her hands paused. For a moment, he thought it was because the question caught her off guard. But then she reached for the scissors. She was done already. “Do you want me to say you?”

  Snip.

  “I never told you my name.”

  “It’s not that hard to figure out, Law.”

  She reached for a cotton swab and some ointment.

  “I’
m just curious,” he bantered back casually, “I want your honest opinion.”

  “All right.” She went back to work, her quick little hands dabbing ointment on his sealed wound like a meticulous artist would stroke paint on canvas. “James—Corollary,” she corrected, “is how I became hooked. But I know what he does. That’s nothing new to me.”

  “And? If not your brother, then whom?”

  “I always find Herald’s writing to be witty.”

  He’s not THAT witty.

  With tape and gauze once again, he was all patched up. “I love the way he turns a phrase. The information is there and accurate, but he’s also entertaining.”

  “But?” While in the process of tidying up, she peered at him, confused. “I’m sorry,” he began to explain. “It sounded as if you mentioned him, just because you’re supposed to like his work the best, because he’s the luminary. And you’re trying to impress me, but don’t want to inflate my ego.”

  “Fine. It’s Virtue.”

  “Oh, why am I not surprised?”

  Every woman he asked almost always said Virtue.

  Law didn’t mind reading her work either. No man would, but they weren’t generally the most eager to admit that.

  So what he said was true. He wasn’t surprised. Bernie was an odd one, but a woman nonetheless. But she, with every fiber of her being, suggested she was high and mightily above the basic human desire. Underneath that unmovable outer shell and brilliant scientific mind, could she actually be a romantic at heart as well?

  “And that’s why I didn’t come out and say it. Because I had a feeling you’d chastise me for it. But here’s the thing. I have to worry about religion, business, and politics every day of my life. And Virtue . . . she provides an escape.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She rose from her chair and began bringing the surgical waste with her toward the door.

  Was that it? All the doctoring he’d get?

  “And by the way,” she turned back to say. “And to satisfy the question you’re really asking, I read your work as well. But I always find it too . . . far-reaching.”

  Ouch. . .

  “Care to elaborate?” he said as nicely as he could through his clenched jaw. He stood as well, prepared to follow her out.

  He’d chase her down if she didn’t answer his question.

  “I’m glad you asked. . .” She tilted her head to the side and forced a smile. “You name call and mudsling, and point out what doesn’t work. Yes, it’s a caste system that’s stacked unfairly, and no one can escape the place they began. People can certainly fall from grace, but there are few ways to rise . . . legally, that is. Yes, it’s always been that way. Yes, we need to put an end to polygamy and Fallowhood. But you can’t just pull out the rug. What will happen to those who are trapped in the system? Plural wives? What if they’re happy where they are? What if they’re not? Do they choose or do you choose? Or does some man like you get to choose? And how is that fair? And then there’s the Fallow problem? The way things stand, they have no rights and few skills. But they have some food, shelter through the brutal winters here, and basic medical care. I hate to say this, but it could be worse. You go to war, they’ll be the first to starve . . . or freeze. Disease will run rampant. It’ll affect us all. And the Fallow will die in the streets more than ever. Because you can’t give something to them without taking something away from someone else. And how long will that take? So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that you need a plan. What do you propose? Is it something realistic? Something gradual and implementable in our lifetime?” She paused to take a breath. And it was about time! “Do you know why I let you in today?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  “I didn’t have to. I certainly have enough to hide from them.”

  “You’re doing those in need a great service, I’m sure.”

  “But I did, and I don’t regret it. . .” Then she dove right back in for another bite. “If you and your colleagues don’t come up with something, then who will? Who could possibly tackle these problems reasonably? Moderately? Peacefully? If this movement fails, we’ll be stuck right where we are. Or we could end up someplace even uglier if reform falls into the wrong hands.”

  Wasn’t he trying to do that all along? Trying and failing, apparently, if that’s how she perceived his efforts thus far.

  Her rant was so uncalled for. So hard to hear!

  And he didn’t take it well. Because she was absolutely right.

  “Are you done?” he made sure to ask . . . just to be clear. He’d hate to interrupt!

  “Yes,” she answered, the exhaustion and exasperation in her tone, though just barely. “The cut’s in good shape. The scarring should be minimal.”

  It was getting late, and that was the first crack in composure he had witnessed. Otherwise, she had such self-control. She was clearly passionate, intelligent, and conscientious. But she could deliver it without raising her voice, never a word—or even a hair—out of place.

  As much as he hated to admit this to himself . . . he was in love.

  “One last thing, doctor, and then I’ll see myself out,” Law ground out, the pulsing flare of his own passion and indignation barely held in check. “Could I inconvenience you for a few sheets of paper?”

  ***

  Law tapped lightly on the door of the room where Virtue was being kept out of view. The supply closet. He had Blasphemy with him. They both had full hands and beamed with news to share.

  Herald’s eye and imposing body blocked the sliver of lamplight he exposed when he cracked the door open.

  It was after midnight. Virtue needed to rest. Herald did, too, for that matter . . . if he could bear to leave her side and find a suitable place to sleep for a few hours. It would do him a world of good.

  Law didn’t intend to bother them until morning. But this just couldn’t wait.

  Herald took one glance at them, what they carried, and let them in without question.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he droned at Law, his voice deep and hoarse, though it was marginally more lighthearted than what was his new usual.

  Law presented the shiny metallic-toned rectangle that was surprisingly lightweight, revealing a screen that lit up upon opening it and a keyboard. “Yep. The work of the devil, right here, in my hands.”

  Herald halfheartedly chuckled. He was a phenomenal typist, and it was the reason they could go to print as fast as they usually did. Besides the typewriter that costed him a small fortune just to borrow, he also relied on early 20th century A.D. printing techniques, available illegally in some cellar Law had only heard about. Herald spared him the details and Law had never really asked.

  The text and layout of what they produced, though, was never quite as eye-catching as what was printed in the Divinity Daily. They undoubtedly used the work of the devil to push out their propaganda in a timely manner. Often beating them to publication on similar topics and offering a more palatable viewpoint, they sold more papers as a result.

  Law glanced over at Virtue and his heart swelled with relief that she appeared alert, all things considered. Some of the terror had abandoned her as well. In its place, she had a look of drowsy contentedness. He would have to do something to show Bernie his appreciation. “How are you holding up, little lady?”

  “I still have a foot.” While Herald returned to the stool beside her, taking her hand in his, she lifted the lower half of her leg out from beneath the sheets. It was in a cast up to the knee, but it was indeed shaped like a boot. “It will never be the same, but. . .” she trailed off solemnly, and then shuddered it off, as if refusing to let that sentiment linger. “It’s a good thing I have a spare, thanks to the best investigative team I’ve ever had the privilege of working with,” she continued, eyes gleaming at Herald as she slipped her other foot out, swiveling her good ankle around for all to see.

  The damage done to her went deep, though, no question. But as far as what
others would be able to see, it was just hair, which would eventually grow back. She had a few more stitches than Law did—Bernie removed the facial piercings and incomplete set of lip studs—and they would heal, the scarring hopefully minimal. And yes, her mobility had been compromised, possibly forever. She’d never be able to roam around Portsmith freely anyway, not with only one functional foot and the code on her arm designating where she supposedly “belonged.” And not unless times did change. But still, she would have more freedom to do as she pleased and follow her heart . . . more than she ever did.

  Something sad but true.

  Virtue tucked her feet back under the blankets with a shiver. “How’s Gospel doing?” she asked Blasphemy.

  “Sleeping soundly,” was her answer. She dragged over a small filing cabinet to sit on, incriminating papers in her possession and her camera around her neck. Their next publication would benefit from one last photoshoot, assuming Virtue and Herald—her less-likely-to-be-persuaded bodyguard—agreed to the idea they were about to pitch.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he woke up tomorrow, ten steps ahead of the rest of us,” Law added, winking. “Gunshot wounds and all.”

  Law set the machine Bernie had called a laptop computer on the nearest available free surface—a cluttered circular table that appeared to be painted wood but had the feel of plastic.

  The oddities in her home and clinic were present in every room, if one was inquisitive and knowledgeable enough about such things to go looking for them.

  “Where in the world did she get that?” Herald wondered aloud.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue. Doctor B. has more secrets than Dark Times’ relics. And that’s hard to believe!” Law complained while on a quest to find an electrical outlet. “All we need is electricity . . . which we have here!” he reminded them, plugging in the device.

  Bernie didn’t have time to explain but handed it to him in lieu of paper—although she readily supplied that as well—and said they were free to borrow the computer for however long they needed it. And that was because she had two working computers, more than that if she ever found someone to fix the ones that were lightly damaged. On top of that, she had an industrial-sized color printer hidden somewhere between her walls and more ink than she could use in a lifetime, or so she claimed. The only trouble was, she never had a pressing need to operate it and therefore didn’t know how to set it up.