by Patrick Ness
“Mr President?” It’s Mr Tate interrupting again.
“Ah, yes, Captain,” the Mayor says. “Are the first spy reports in?”
“Not yet,” Mr Tate says. “We expect them just after dawn.”
“When they’ll tell us there’s limited movement to the north above the river, which is too wide for Spackle troops to cross, and to the south along the ridge of hills, which is too remote for the Spackle to use effectively.” The Mayor looks back up to the hill. “No, they’ll attack us from there. Of that I have no doubt.”
“That’s not why I’ve come, sir,” Mr Tate says, and he holds up an armful of folded cloth. “It took a while to find in the wreckage of the cathedral, but it’s surprisingly unsullied.”
“Excellent, Captain,” the Mayor says, taking the cloth from him, real pleasure in his voice. “Most excellent indeed.”
“What is it?” I ask.
With a snap of his hands, the Mayor unfurls the cloth and holds it up. It’s a smart-looking jacket and matching trousers.
“My general’s uniform,” he says.
Mr Tate and me and all the soldiers nearby at their campfires watch as he takes off his blood- and dust-stained regular jacket and puts on a perfectly-fitted dark blue one with a gold stripe running down each sleeve. He smoothes it with his palms and looks back up at me, that amused twinkle still in his eye.
“Let the battle for peace commence.”
{VIOLA}
Acorn and I go back up the road and across through the square, the distant sky getting a pink tinge as dawn approaches.
I watched Todd as I left until I could no longer see him. I’m worried about him, worried about his Noise. Even when I left, it still had the strange blurriness to it, where it was hard to see details but was still just vivid with feelings–
(–even those feelings, the ones that were there for a minute before he got embarrassed, the physical feelings, the ones without words, the ones concentrated right on my skin, of how he wanted to touch it more, those feelings that made me want to–)
–and I wonder again if he’s in the same shock as Angharrad, if what he saw in battle was so bad, it somehow made him unable to even see it, even in his Noise, and my heart just breaks at the thought of it–
Another reason for no more war.
I pull the coat Simone gave me tighter. It’s cold and I’m shivering, but I can also feel myself sweating, which I know from my healer training means I have a fever. I pull up my left sleeve and look underneath the bandage. The skin around the band is still angry and red.
And now there are red streaks from it reaching down to my wrist.
Streaks that I know mean infection. Bad infection.
Infection that’s not being knocked back by the bandage.
I pull the sleeve back down and try not to think about it. Try not to think that I didn’t tell Todd how bad it was either.
Because I’ve still got to find Mistress Coyle.
“Well,” I say to Acorn. “She’s always talking about the ocean. I wonder if it’s really as far away as she–”
I jump as the comm beeps suddenly in my pocket.
“Todd?” I say, answering it immediately.
But it’s Simone.
“You’d better come straight back here,” she says.
“Why?” I say, alarmed. “What’s happened?”
“I’ve found your Answer.”
Before
(THE RETURN)
The sun is about to rise as I take some food from the cookfires. Members of the Land watch as I collect a pan and fill it with stew. Their voices are open – they could hardly be closed and still be members of the Land – so I can hear them discussing me, their thoughts spreading one to the other, forming one opinion, then a contrary one and back again, all so fast I can barely follow it.
And then they come to a decision. One of the Land rises to her feet to offer me a large bone spoon so that I do not merely have to drink the stew from the bowl, and behind her I can hear the Land’s voices, their voice, offering it to me in friendship.
I reach out to take it.
Thank you, I say, in the language of the Burden–
And there it is again, the slight discomfort at the language I speak, the distaste at something so alien, so individual, so representative of something shameful. It is quickly bundled away and argued against in the swirling voice, but it was definitely there for an instant.
I do not take the spoon. I hear their voices calling after me in apology as I walk away, but I do not turn around. Instead, I walk to a path I have found and start my way up the rocky hill by the side of the road.
The Land has mostly made its camp along the flat of the road, but I see others on the hillside as I climb, others from areas where the Land lives in mountains and who are more comfortable on the steepness. Likewise down below, there are those from where the Land lives near rivers who sleep in quickly made boats.
But then, the Land is all one, is it not? The Land has no others, it has no they or those.
There is only one Land.
And I am the one who stands outside it.
I reach a point where the hill becomes so steep I have to pull myself up. I see an outcropping where I can sit and look at the Land below me, much as the Land can look over the lip of the hill and see the Clearing.
A place where I can be alone.
I should not be alone.
My one in particular should be here with me, eating our meals together as the dawn slowly brightens, fighting off sleep, waiting for the next phase of the war side by side.
But my one in particular is not here.
Because my one in particular was killed by the Clearing as the Burden were first rounded up from back gardens and basements, from locked rooms and servant’s quarters. My one in particular and I were kept in a garden shed, and when the shed door was opened that night, my one in particular fought. Fought for me. Fought to keep them from taking me.
And was brought down by a heavy blade.
I was dragged away making the inadequate clicking sound the Clearing left us with after forcing us to take its “cure”, a sound that said nothing of what it was like to be torn from my one in particular and thrown into a gathered band of the Burden, who had to hold me down to keep me from running back to the shed.
To keep me from being cut down myself.
I hated the Burden for that. Hated them for not letting me die there and then, when my grief was not quite enough to kill me on its own. Hated them for the way they–
For the way we accepted our fates, the way we went where we were told, ate what we were told, slept where we were told. In all that time, we fought back once, only once. Against the Knife and the other one with him, the loud one who was bigger but seemed younger. We fought when the Knife’s friend strapped a band around one of our necks for pure, cruel fun.
For a moment, in silence, the Burden understood each other again. For a moment we were truly one again, connected.
Not alone.
And we fought.
And some of us died.
And we did not fight again.
Not when a group of the Clearing returned with rifles and blades. Not when they lined us up and began to kill us. Shooting us, hacking at us, making that high stuttering sound they call laughing. Killing the old and the young, mothers and babies, fathers and sons. If we tried to resist, we were killed. If we did not resist, we were killed. If we tried to run, we were killed. If we did not run, we were killed.
One after the other after the other after the other.
With no way to share our fear. No way to coordinate and try to protect ourselves. No way to be comforted as we died.
And so we died alone. Every one of us.
Everyone but one.
Everyone but 1017.
Before the killing began, they looked at our bands until they found me, and they dragged me to a wall and made me watch. Watch as the clicks of the Burden grew fewer and fewer, as the grass grew st
ickier with our blood, as at last I was the only Burden left alive on this entire world.
And then they clubbed me on the head and I awoke in a pile of bodies with faces that I recognized, hands that had touched mine in comfort, mouths that had shared their food, eyes that had tried to share their terror.
I woke up, alone among the dead, and they pressed on me, suffocated me.
And then the Knife was there.
Is here now–
Is pulling me from the bodies of the Burden–
And we tumble to the ground and I fall away from him–
We stare at each other, our breaths making clouds in the cold–
His voice is open wide with pain and horror at what he sees–
The pain and horror he always feels–
The pain and horror that always threatens to topple him over–
But never does.
“Yer alive,” he says, and he is so relieved, so happy, to see me in the middle of all that death where I am alone and alone and alone for ever, he is so happy that I vow to kill him–
And then he asks me about his own one in particular–
Asking if, among all the killing of my own kind, I have seen one of his–
And my vow becomes unbreakable–
I show him I will kill him–
In the weakness of my returning voice, I show him I will kill him–
And I will–
I will do it now, I will do it right now–
You are safe, says a voice–
I am on my feet, my fists swinging in panic.
They are caught easily by the Sky in his larger hands, and as I pull back from the shock of the dream, I nearly topple off the outcropping. He has to catch me again, but his hand grabs the band and I cry out as he pulls me upright, his voice instantly surrounding the pain in mine, wrapping it away, lessening it, holding it until the fire in my arm calms down.
It remains so painful? the Sky asks gently in the language of the Burden.
I am breathing heavily, from the surprise of being woken, from the surprise of finding the Sky near me, from the surprise of the pain. It does, is all I can show for the moment.
I am sorry we have been unable to heal it, he shows. The Land will redouble its efforts.
The Land’s efforts are better used elsewhere, I show. It is a poison of the Clearing, meant for their animals. It is probably only within their power to cure.
The Land learns much in the ways of the Clearing, the Sky shows. We hear their voice even when they do not hear ours. And we learn. His voice rises with real feeling. We will save the Return.
I do not need saving, I show.
You do not want saving, which is a different matter. One which will also occupy the Land.
The pain in my arm is easing and I rub my face, trying to wake myself up.
I did not mean to sleep, I show. I wish never to sleep until the Clearing are gone from here.
And only then will your dreams know peace? the Sky shows, bemused.
You do not understand, I show. You cannot.
Again, I feel the warmth of him encircling my voice. The Return is incorrect. The Sky can share the past in the Return’s voice, that is the nature of the voice of the Land, that all experience is as one, that nothing is forgotten, that all things are–
It is not the same as being there, I interrupt, conscious again of the rudeness. A memory is not the thing remembered.
He pauses again, but the warmth remains. Perhaps not, he finally shows.
What is it that you want? I show, a bit too loud, feeling shamed by his kindness.
He places a hand on my shoulder and we look out to the Land stretched beneath us down the road, on the right to the very tip of the hill that looks out over the Clearing, on the left back as far as can be seen, past a bend in the river and farther beyond that, I know.
The Land rests, shows the Sky. The Land waits. Waits for the Return.
I show nothing.
You are one of the Land, he shows. However separate you feel now. But that is not all the Land waits for this day.
I look over to him. Is there a change? Will we be attacking?
Not yet, he shows, but there are a number of ways to fight a war.
And then he opens his voice and shows me what is seen in the eyes of others in the Land–
Of others in the light of the newly rising sun as it reaches the deeper valley–
And I see.
I see what is to come.
And I feel my own small flicker of warmth.
{VIOLA}
“Can you think of a safer place, my girl?” Mistress Coyle says.
After Simone’s call, Acorn and I rode fast straight back to the hilltop.
Where the Answer now makes camp.
The cold sun is rising on an open area filled with carts and people and the first makings of campfires. They’ve already organized a mess tent where Mistress Nadari and Mistress Lawson are busy coordinating supplies and rationing food, blue As still written across the front of their clothes and on a few scattered faces throughout the crowd. Magnus and other people I recognize are starting to set up tents, and I wave over at Wilf, who’s taking charge of the Answer’s animals. His wife Jane is with him, and she waves back so vigorously it looks like she might hurt herself.
“Your friends may not want to get involved in a war,” Mistress Coyle says, eating her breakfast on the back of the cart where she’s made her bed, parked near the bay doors of the scout ship. “But if the Mayor or the Spackle decide to attack, I’d imagine they’d be willing to protect themselves.”
“You’ve got some nerve,” I say angrily, still up on Acorn.
“Yes, I do have some nerve,” she says, taking another bite of porridge, “because some nerve is exactly what’s going to keep my people alive.”
“Until you decide to sacrifice them again.”
Her eyes flare at that. “You think you know me. You call me bad and evil and a tyrant and yes, I’ve made tough decisions, but they were decisions with only one aim, Viola. Getting rid of that man and returning to the Haven we had before. Not slaughter for its own sake. Not the sacrifice of good people for no reason. But, as it turns out, the same goal as you, my girl. Peace.”
“You’ve got a pretty warlike way of going about it.”
“I’ve got an adult way of going about it,” she says. “A way that isn’t nice or pretty, but that gets the job done.” She looks at someone behind me. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Simone says, coming down the ramp from the scout ship.
“How is he?” I ask her.
“Talking to the convoy,” she says, “seeing if they have any medical advice.” She crosses her arms. “None so far.”
“I don’t have any cure left,” Mistress Coyle says, “but there are natural remedies that can help take the edge off.”
“You stay away from him,” I say.
“I am a healer, Viola,” she says, “whether you like it or not. I’d even like to heal you, as I can see from a glance that you’re feverish.”
Simone looks at me, concerned. “She’s right, Viola. You don’t look well.”
“This woman is never going to touch me,” I say. “Ever again.”
Mistress Coyle sighs heavily. “Not even to let me make amends, my girl? Not even as a first peaceful gesture between us?”
I look at her, wondering about her, remembering how well she healed, how hard she fought for Corinne’s life, how she managed through sheer willpower to turn a band of healers and stragglers into an army that might have toppled the Mayor, just like she said, had the Spackle not come.
But I remember the bombs, too.
I remember the last bomb.
“You tried to kill me.”
“I tried to kill him,” she says. “There is a difference.”
“Got room for more up here?” says a voice behind us.
We all turn. It’s a dust-covered man with a ragged uniform and a sly look in his eyes. A look I
recognize.
“Ivan?” I say.
“I woke up at the cathedral and there was a war a-going on,” he says.
I see other men behind him, heading for the food tent, the men who tried to help me and Todd overthrow the Mayor, the ones knocked unconscious in the Mayor’s Noise attack, Ivan the last to fall.
I’m not actually sure I’m pleased to see him.
“Todd always said you went where the power was,” I say.
His eyes flash. “It’s what’s kept me alive.”
“You’re very welcome here,” Mistress Coyle says, like she’s in charge. Ivan nods and heads off to feed himself. I look back at her, and I can see her smiling at what I’d said about power.
Because he came to her, didn’t he?
[TODD]
“It’s the smart thing to do,” the Mayor says. “It’s what I would do in her place. Try to get our new residents on her side.”
Viola called me first thing and told me all about the Answer showing up on the hilltop. I found myself seeing if I could hide it from the Mayor, trying to keep my Noise light, trying to do it without any effort at all.
He still heard me.
“There ain’t no sides,” I say. “There can’t be no more. It’s all of us against the Spackle now.”
The Mayor just makes an mmm sound with his throat.
“Mr President?” It’s Mr O’Hare with another report. The Mayor reads it, his gaze hungry.
Cuz nothing’s happened yet. I think he expected a new battle at first light but the cold sun rose and nothing happened and now it’s closer to midday and still nothing. Like all that fighting yesterday never happened.
(except it did–)
(except it’s still happening in my head–)
(I am the Circle and the Circle is me, I think, light as I can–)
“Not particularly illuminating,” the Mayor says to Mr O’Hare.
“There’s reports of possible movement to the south–”
The Mayor shoves the papers back at Mr O’Hare, cutting him off. “Do you know, Todd, if they chose to come at us with full numbers, there’d be nothing we could do? Our weapons would eventually run out of ammunition, our men would eventually die, and there would still be more than enough of them left to wipe us out.” He clicks his teeth together in thought. “So why aren’t they coming?” He turns to Mr O’Hare. “Tell the men to go in closer.”