He couldn’t trust any of them now. Not the gavvers, not even Carver. No! He would go into the tower with only Werber; Werber and the grey wolf.
The gavvers had told him Leyla had gone to her death still singing.
CHAPTER 23
#449
Tower
Tall, narrow building
THE air was thick and suffocating as they headed for the beach. Finn strode on ahead with Letta struggling to keep up. The walk seemed endless. Up the hill, past the potato fields, then down the winding path. On the beach, Finn pulled Letta down behind a rock. She looked up at him in alarm, but he put his finger to his lips.
‘Better the water gatherers don’t see you. Stay there. I’ll find Marlo.’
She sat on the sand, leaning against the rock, and waited. Excitement coursed through her. The next few hours would be the most crucial of her life.
‘No harm!’
Marlo appeared beside her.
‘Well?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘All good. I managed to find a barrel they had filled and I emptied out half the water.’
‘Good,’ Letta said.
‘You know the platform over there where they load the barrels?’
Letta nodded. ‘I know it,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them pull the horse and carts alongside.’
‘Yes,’ Marlo said. ‘They roll the barrel on to the cart and take it through the town and up Noa’s Hill to the water tower.’
‘What happens after that?’
‘At the tower,’ Marlo said, ‘they attach a pulley to it. The horse pulls the rope and the barrel goes up to the top of the tower. There are two more men up there. They roll it in, open it, and tip the salt water into the tank to be cleaned.’
‘But –’ Letta objected.
‘I know,’ Marlo said. ‘Just listen. They take the last load at six bells and leave the barrels outside the tower till morning, when they lift the last load in and start again.’
‘But I need to be in the tower tonight. I can’t wait till morning.’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ Marlo said. ‘When they drop the load, one of the workers will make sure that your barrel goes up to the top of the tower. It will be left there overnight.’
Finn slipped in beside them. ‘Then you climb out –’ he said.
‘And wait for Noa,’ Letta finished for him.
Finn nodded grimly. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
‘Did you speak to Colm?’ Marlo asked Finn. ‘He’s the water gatherer I told you about, Letta. He’s a good friend.’
Finn nodded. ‘He knows what to do. The last load leaves shortly, though. Colm will distract his colleagues while we put Letta in the barrel. I’m to give him the signal when we are ready.’
‘I am ready,’ Letta said, though she felt light-headed and was breathing too fast.
‘We will be outside the tower at dawn,’ Marlo said. ‘You’ll get your chance to talk to Noa.’
‘You’ll have ten or fifteen minutes,’ Finn said. ‘Then we’re coming in.’
‘I’ll just check the beach. See if they are ready,’ Finn said, and disappeared again. Letta sensed he wasn’t altogether happy with the plan but at least he was giving her a chance.
Marlo moved in closer to her. She could smell his warm sagey smell and feel his breath, soft on her cheek.
‘I wish I could take your place,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Take this,’ he said, placing a knife in her hand. It had leather bindings around the handle and the sharp steel looked cold as ice. She pushed it away.
‘No!’ she said. ‘I can’t. What would I do with it?’
Marlo placed the handle in her hand again.
‘Put it in your boot. Please, Letta. For me.’
She looked into his eyes and closed her fingers around the handle.
‘I won’t use it,’ she said to him, shoving it into her boot.
‘I will never meet anyone like you again, Letta. Go safely. Please.’
He put his hands either side of her face and pulled her closer to him. Her fingers touched the skin of his bare arms and she felt as though a current ran through her, and then her lips found his and they were kissing. Kissing like they would never stop. She felt his hands in her hair and she buried her face in his neck, breathing in his smell, never wanting to leave his arms.
‘When this is all over –’ Marlo began.
She pulled away reluctantly, her breath unsteady.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When this is over.’
Seconds later she was running down the beach, Finn to her right, Marlo to her left. At one point she stumbled, and Marlo grabbed her arm. She sneaked a glance at him. His jaw was set. Worry lines creased the soft skin around his eyes. He caught her looking at him and he smiled and she wished that the world could stop for a minute and let her savour that smile.
The water gatherers were nowhere to be seen. The two men lifted her onto the platform where six barrels stood.
Marlo took the lid off one of the barrels.
‘Quickly,’ Finn said, and swung her up in his arms. And then her feet were in water, her legs, right up to her hips. The cold was like an electric shock. She couldn’t stand upright. She bent her knees, feeling the water soak into her skirt, making it feel heavy, pulling her down. She put her hands on the side of the barrel for balance.
‘All right?’ Marlo’s voice was tight with anxiety.
‘All right,’ she said. And then she heard the lid bang into place, and darkness descended.
She couldn’t stop shivering. It was so cold. She bit her bottom lip to try to stop the spasms but it didn’t help. She could hear the sea and the odd sea bird outside and feel the salt wind. She touched rough wood and the cold metal head of nails and then something slimy that made her pull her hand back quickly, until she realised that it was just a clump of seaweed. I mustn’t panic, she thought. Just relax. Think about something else.
And then the barrel moved. Gently. A mere tap. Her shoulder hit the side. She pushed her hands against the wood and braced herself. The barrel tilted violently. She almost screamed. Her head hit the side of the barrel. She sat down, not caring that the water was now above her waist. The barrel tilted again. Salt water splashed her face. Her body was jerked and slammed from side to side. She stifled another scream. Tears flowed down her face. Her body hurt at every point, bruises on top of bruises, and then all was quiet again.
‘Hup!’ a man shouted outside.
She realised she was on the cart. The cold was now seeping into her bones. She hugged her knees to her chest and waited. More loud bangs as the other barrels were loaded. Shouts from the men.
‘Hup! Forward!’
And then the cart moved.
She braced her feet against the side of the barrel. Better she thought. Definitely better. Soon she could almost predict the rhythm of the horse. Over and back. Over and back. The sounds of the beach faded and she knew they were heading in the direction of the town. In her mind’s eye she could see the fields on either side, almost see the high hedges. It seemed to take for ever but suddenly there was the sound of people all about her. Disembodied voices shouting greetings, giving instructions, and then they were moving away. She knew that they were headed for the winding path that led up the cliff to the tower. Had they reached it yet? Suddenly the barrel slipped, smashing into the one behind it. Letta’s head bounced off the surface. Blinding pain caused her to see flashing lights. They had reached the path. She was sure of it now. She could hear the men encouraging the horse.
‘On, boy! On!’
The path was as twisted as she had imagined. She could almost see the horse, picking his way carefully through the stones, loose clinker scattering behind his clumsy feet. With every twist her stomach lurched until finally she felt acid in her mouth, followed by a flood of saliva, and then her stomach heaved and she vomited all over her skirt. She sat back exhausted, wiping the vomit from her mouth with the back of her
hand.
It can’t be much further, she told herself. It can’t be. She was afraid the cold would kill her before she ever got to the tower. Or that she would hit her head so hard that it would knock her out and she’d slip beneath the water and drown. No! She wouldn’t let that happen. She was going to get to that tower and stop Noa. The cart lurched again as the horse stumbled. She wrapped her arms around her head to protect it, felt the skin tear as her hand made contact with the rough wood. She winced as the blood dripped down her arm and onto her face.
On and on they went, falling from side to side, the smell of vomit overpowering, the taste of blood on her lips. Ache piled upon ache with the relentless movement of the barrel. At one point, her head hit the lid so strenuously, that she almost bit right through her lower lip. She cried out, despite herself, and was terrified they would hear her. Nothing happened. Letta curled her body into a ball, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes closed. And still they climbed, the horse doggedly pulling the cart, the men shouting instructions. Then, when Letta honestly felt she could endure no more, they stopped.
‘Hold, boy! Back now!’ she heard the man call.
She could hear the men clearly.
‘That’s it,’ one said.
‘I’ll untie the horse.’
‘No. Me. I do it. You go home.’
‘My turn.’
‘Go, man! Go home to your new mate!’
They both laughed then. Letta scooped up water to wash the blood off her face. She heard the man retreat.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow!’
Then nothing. She waited. Had they both left? A few minutes more. Then the barrel jerked.
‘Hup, boy!’
She felt the barrel being lifted. It swung right and left, then tapped off the wall of the tower, sending her flying. Her shoulder submerged in the water and then the barrel was swinging again. Right, left. She tried to move with it to lessen the impact. How much farther? She couldn’t bear to think how high the tower was. She had been afraid of heights all her life. She thrust the image away. Concentrate on the motion: Right. Left. Bang! The barrel hit the wall again. Her head bounced off the side. And then it stopped. She shifted position and the barrel swayed. She knew then that she was hanging from the rope, at the top of the tower. Still outside the tower. She tried to remember what Marlo had said.
The horse pulls the rope and the barrel goes up to the top of the tower. There are two more men at the top. They roll it in, open it and tip the salt water into the tank to be cleaned.
Were the two men still there, waiting for her barrel? Her heart raced at the prospect. If they were, they would open the barrel and tip her into the tank.
She waited. Maybe she would be left here, forgotten. She had a vision of her dirty wet face staring up from the bottom of the barrel, swinging like a metronome, while life went on outside.
Then another thought assailed her. Had Colm managed to get the barrel up here and then been forced to leave? Would she be here all night waiting to be discovered in the morning? The minutes stretched. The cold was unbearable now. Her teeth were banging together, her jaw ached. And all the time she was straining to hear something, anything.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there. She tried hard not to move. Moving caused the barrel to swing and made her stomach lurch. And then suddenly she felt a massive pull as the barrel was hauled to her right. She could hear the man grunting with the effort. She prayed it was Colm. Then a loud bang. Her body shuddered from the vibration.
‘There!’ she heard the man mutter to himself.
Was it the same voice? She couldn’t tell. Did he know she was in here? Maybe not.
Footsteps.
Footsteps receding.
Then silence.
She didn’t dare move. She had to be sure. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard a door slam. Had she imagined that? Wait. Patience.
She counted slowly to one hundred. Then another hundred. Gingerly, she tested the lid. She pushed. It stayed firm. She pushed again, harder this time. Panic threatened to drown her in its wake. She knelt up in the barrel and with all her strength pushed against the lid. Crash! The noise was deafening as the lid flew off and landed on the steel platform.
Letta cowered, covering her ears with her hands, all the stress of the past hours catching up with her. She waited for the whistles, the sound of running feet. But there was only silence. Gradually, her heart slowed. She placed her hands on the sides of the barrel and levered herself into a standing position. After three attempts, she managed to throw her leg over the edge, and let herself fall to the floor.
Only then did she take in where she was. The barrel stood on a narrow platform. The tower had a roof to protect the water from contamination, but there was a large gap in the wall behind her through which the barrel had come. It had stopped raining but a bitter wind gusted through the opening, making her feel as if the entire tower was open to the elements. In front of her were two large tanks, one raised slightly higher than the other, both tanks filled to the brim with water. Pipes made from woven canvas connected the tanks. Letta had heard about the filters invented by the Green Warriors that allowed water to travel from one tank to the other, but did not allow salt to pass through at all. The lower tank was the desalinated water to which the warriors added chlorine. This was obviously where Noa would put the Nicene.
A narrow walkway stretched between the tanks. To Letta, the walkway appeared to float there, with nothing either side but a steep void.
To her right she could see a staircase leading down to the hall below. I have to get to the stairs, she told herself. Looking down made her dizzy, so she tried to look straight ahead. Carefully, with her back still pressed against the wall, she took off her boots, now sodden and heavy, cursing the vertigo that made everything so difficult.
The knife was still there tucked inside her sock. She took it out carefully and laid it on the floor beside her. Then she took off her wet socks. Feeling her bare feet on the ground helped her to feel more balanced. She picked up all her belongings, and slowly, never leaving the safety of the wall behind her, she headed for the stairs.
When she got there, she sat on the top step and tried to catch her breath. She was sure she was going to be sick again. She knew it was illogical, but the feeling of standing up there, with nothing below her but that gaping blackness, terrified her. Yet she had done it, she told herself, wiping the cold sweat from her face. She had done it.
The staircase was a dilapidated structure with gnarled wooden treads and a rough banister. It stretched down to a cavernous space below, an entrance hall of sorts, whose floor was tiled with blocks of stone. There were two large windows on one wall chequered with small lozenge panes sunk in black lead. The walls were covered in flaking limestone plaster that had once been painted in a grey–green colour. The only decoration was a circular slab of pure white marble, engraved with the image of a grey wolf’s head. Letta stared at it, transfixed.
She would go down there, she thought, and find somewhere to hide and wait. Werber had been certain that there would be no-one inside the tower at this hour. Besides, there was nowhere to hide upstairs with the tanks, and she knew she would be overcome with vertigo if she stayed. She walked down slowly, clinging to the old wrought-iron banister, flaked with rust, as the stairs curved in on itself, making her feel disoriented and slightly dizzy. Beside her, a narrow window extended almost to the roof but it was already too dark to see anything. Finally she reached the bottom.
A fluttering noise made her look up just in time to see a family of bats fly across the vaulted ceiling and disappear. On the wall opposite the large windows she saw another door, almost invisible, flush to the wall, with only the shadow in the plaster betraying it. Carefully, she pushed against it and felt it give. A corridor stretched in front of her about twenty strides long. Her bare feet glided noiselessly over the stone floor. A few strides later, she noticed the flooring had changed. Now sh
e was walking on cold marble. The paint on the walls was new, not flaking as it was everywhere else. The smells had changed too. Before she had only smelt damp and decay. Now what assailed her nose was sharp and clean and medicinal. In front of her was a laboratory of some sort. Two long benches neatly arrayed with glass bottles of different shapes and sizes. The room itself had one long window on the far wall, with a wide ledge beneath it, but it was too high for her to see through. But best of all there was a line of hooks on which hung three white suits. Boiler suits, she thought they were called.
‘Yes!’ she muttered to herself.
Within seconds she had divested herself of all her wet clothes. She used one suit to roughly dry her body and then put on the second suit. It was too wide and too big but she turned up the legs and arms and pulled it around her as tightly as she could. She was still cold but she felt cleaner. She thought about putting the second suit on over the first one for heat, but she was afraid it would make her too clumsy. When the time came, she would have to be able to move quickly. She picked up the knife and sat on the ledge under the window to wait for Noa.
It was time. The Green Warrior handed him the canister. He held it up to the light. It looked so innocent. But he knew its power. He had banked two full weeks’ worth of water. Man could only survive for one hundred hours without water. At first, the people of Ark would drink, going to the water stations as they always did. Then, he would open the pipe in Tintown, where they would be grateful for the extra water. Finally, the Desecrators and the rebels in the forest would find the main pipe unguarded, and from it they would steal what they needed. No force required from the government.
The water would flush them out, driven on by their own thirst.
He tried to imagine the days that would follow.
The silence that would descend.
Eternal silence.
CHAPTER 24
#150
Dawn
New light, early day
THE night passed slowly. It was cold in the old tower. Letta put her boots back on and shoved the knife in beside her bare foot. Then she crossed the hall again and perched half-way up the stairs. For the first hour or two she sat waiting to hear a noise at the front door or see it move, but eventually she relaxed. She had no idea if or when he would appear.
The Wordsmith Page 22