"You'll tell them the coins are an assurance of sincerity from the note's author," said Evan. "The coins will give the words much more import than they carry alone. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Oliver. "How soon would you like me to take care of this?"
"As soon as possible," said Evan. "But your first priority is to protect yourself and to protect our secret. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Chapter 46: Melora
When Melora and Rowan were through the threshold of the house, the man instructed Rowan to lie on a small bed, then he retrieved a bucket of water.
Melora studied the interlocking branches holding the walls together. The house was small and compact, lending to its camouflage. The walls were pieced together by scrap metal; dirty sheets ferreted from the forest or someplace else. Melora eyed the ancient material in awe, wondering what price it would fetch in the townships. No two pieces matched, and no two pieces were the same material. The walls were imperfect and porous, allowing natural light to seep into the dwelling. Melora saw a small pile of supplies in the corner: sharp sticks, kindling, and blankets. A pile of animal skins was stacked next to them.
The children clutched their sticks, their eyes straying from their father to their new guests. Melora studied them, but tried not to stare. Their faces were round and dirt-stained. Their dark hair was matted in clumps. Melora had never seen children in the wild before. Davenport had plenty of young ones—strolling with parents through the streets, playing with the animals—but these were different. Their expressions were hard, calloused. She pictured the way they'd stabbed the demons outside the dwelling, as if they were preparing a meal, rather than exterminating monsters.
Rowan let out a stifled scream, and their gazes shot to his mangled foot. The bearded man was tending it with a cloth, wiping away the dirt and grass. It looked like he was trying to stop the bleeding. Rowan bit his lip in agony. His boot lay on the floor next to him; his toes were chewed and exposed. It looked like the creature had gotten a few mouthfuls.
Melora gagged at the sight. The memory was almost as bad as the injury. She couldn't imagine what Rowan was feeling. Thank God he was alive.
They'd outlived the others.
Their hunting trip outside the Davenport walls had been cut short by screams, their efforts to return thwarted by the massacring soldiers they'd seen through the village gates. They'd had no choice but to flee. No choice but to leave behind friends and family.
They'd been running ever since. They'd spent the previous two nights at the tops of trees, clinging to the branches for comfort. Before they'd fled, Melora had wondered if the demons were real.
She knew better now, and Rowan's gnawed foot was proof of their viciousness.
Seeing him in pain, she turned to the bearded man. "Do you have any medicines?"
The man gave her a look, as if to quiet her, and nodded to his daughter. The little girl walked quietly to the corner and rummaged through one of the piles. She pulled out a pouch hidden beneath the blankets and walked it over to her father. He opened it, grabbed a small flask, and shook it. He offered it to the pained boy. Rowan took a long gulp.
When he was finished, the man held the container upside down, dumping it on Rowan's exposed foot.
"What the—" Rowan screamed in anguish, unprepared for the sting of alcohol. He reached for his injury, as if to somehow stop the pain, but the man knocked his hand away.
"What are you doing?" Melora asked frantically.
"Cleaning the wound. It will help with the healing."
"How could you know that?"
"It's what we've always done," the bearded man said, barely paying attention. "Bernadette, get me the needle."
The little girl scooted back over to the corner, swapping the empty flask for a small bag, as if she'd been drilled on the procedure. She brought it to her father. Then he went to work, sewing together the loose flesh on Rowan's toes. Rowan kicked and bucked.
"Hold him down!" the bearded man barked. Melora hurried over and complied. "Keep him quiet so he doesn't lure the demons!" he said to his children.
The kids jumped in and covered the injured boy's mouth.
The bearded man explained while he worked. "Surely, you must have seen the healers work on wounds in your village?" he asked Melora. "You have to sew the skin back together. And after that, you need to keep it dry and clean."
"I've never heard that last part."
"It's what we do in the wild. The settlers taught each other."
The man's methods were unconventional, but he seemed to know what he was doing. She watched him work without interrupting again.
"I'm sorry," Melora whispered to Rowan. Rowan nodded, his eyes ringed and tear-stricken. He looked like he'd been in the wild for weeks instead of days. She imagined she looked much the same—bruised and bloodied, her clothing scarred with the remains of the demon she'd killed.
The procedure was unbearably long. Each stitch produced howls of pain from the wounded boy. Several times, Melora cast wary glances at the door, fearful they'd draw demons. But nothing came. After a while, Rowan's screams changed to whimpers. He fell into a stupor, delirious from pain. The bearded man finished his work and set down his tools. He panted for breath, as if the ordeal had drained him.
Melora wiped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead. The house felt stiflingly hot. She gazed at the door, desperate for air, but she wouldn't leave Rowan.
The bearded man wrapped Rowan's foot with a piece of cloth and propped him on the bed. Rowan's eyelids fluttered. Melora kept a vigil next to him. She watched him carefully, verifying that he was still breathing. She was terrified she'd lose another friend. She pictured Cooley collapsing in the forest, too exhausted to run any further. The demons had swallowed him in a scrum of limbs, biting and clawing. Eating. Rowan had made a grab for him, and that's when he'd fallen, exposing himself to attack. Melora had barely dragged Rowan away in time. That had been yesterday.
She shook away the memory as she watched the bearded man tuck away his instruments. He crouched to the floor, cleaning his hands in the bucket.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Cleaning my hands of the sickness."
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes wounds can pass sickness from one person to the next, if you don't wash thoroughly. We'll need more water now," he grumbled. He stared at the soiled basin, as if the container might refill itself.
"Thanks for helping us," Melora began. "If you hadn't, we'd have been dead." She patted her pockets, feeling guilty. "If I had any silver, I'd repay you…"
The bearded man laughed. "Silver? What good would that do me?"
Melora frowned. She'd never heard of anyone speak of silver that way. The entire world she'd known revolved around coin. Her village was run on it. But it made sense, maybe. It didn't take a scholar to determine these people lived in the wild.
"If I went back where I could spend it, I'd be killed," the bearded man added. "Someone might recognize me. Either that, or a suspicious local might alert one of the soldiers. I have children to look after."
She stared at the dirty, unkempt man. The children were guarding the door. The family's existence gave credence to the stories she'd heard whispered in the streets—tales of people fleeing towns, living outside Blackthorn's rule.
The villagers wouldn't believe her tale even if she told it.
Of course, there was no one left to tell.
Melora held back tears. She looked at the children, trying to find comfort, but they stared at her with hard, unsympathetic faces. They'd probably seen worse.
"When was the last time you saw soldiers?" the man asked again, his eyes filled with suspicion.
"Not since we left the village."
"You said you're from Davenport?"
Hearing the name of her dead, ruined village spoken aloud, Melora's emotions won out. She leaned forward and tucked her face to her knees, sobbing into her tattered pants. The family acr
oss from her went silent. Rowan reached for her arm, his eyes half-closed.
She wept for several minutes, crying for the villagers, for Cooley and Rowan. The only thing worse than being massacred was surviving one. Melora knew everyone was dead. The screams of Davenport's residents were dying nightmares she couldn't erase. Even if someone had survived, they'd be discovered and finished off. Blackthorn's blue shirts had been ruthless. She'd seen them through the open gates, stabbing, spearing, shedding blood.
If Frederick and Jean hadn't allowed her to hunt—a practice usually forbidden to women—Melora would've been as dead as the rest of them. And now Frederick and Jean were gone. Melora cried until there was nothing left. She covered her head in embarrassment. Mourning was a secret, shameful thing, to be done among friends and relatives, never to be done among strangers.
Melora dried her eyes and looked up, surveying the small, dirt-covered room. The man and children watched her with somber faces.
"They killed them all," Melora said, trying to keep her voice even. "They killed the whole village."
The man nodded with as much sympathy as his hard face could project. "Was it Blackthorn's soldiers?"
She nodded and chewed her lip, afraid that the tears would continue.
"We saw them in the woods a day ago," the little girl said, her blue eyes peering out through a mask of dirt. "We knew they were up to something."
The little boy added, "We hid in a ravine. They almost caught us."
The bearded man said, "I used to travel through Davenport all the time, back when I lived in Coventry. It is a small village, but the trade is good there. That was a long time ago."
Melora furrowed her brow, but he didn't look familiar. "I don't think I've seen you before."
"I traveled through there years before you were born."
"Did you know my parents? Did you know Frederick and Jean Abbot?"
"The names sound familiar, but I can't say for certain."
Melora's head sank. She glanced at the door, as if her parents might come walking through it. She couldn't comprehend they were dead. But those screams…
"You did the right thing in leaving," the bearded man said, scratching his face. "If you hadn't, you would've died."
"I…I guess so."
"My name's Roger. These are my children, Bernadette and Ashton."
Melora brushed her hair from her face, attempting a smile. "I'm Melora and this is Rowan."
She glanced at her friend, but Rowan had closed his eyes. The steady hiss of his breath told her he was asleep. He was exhausted, sapped from the pain he'd endured.
She turned her attention back to the family. Bernadette and Ashton had round, soft faces, while Roger's features were sharp and gaunt. The children didn't resemble their father.
Roger explained, "Their parents died when they were young, and I took them as my own."
The kids nodded, faces unmoving.
"What happened?" Melora asked.
"We were living with a large group of settlers. Our camp was attacked by demons, and only half of us made it out. Their parents were some of the unlucky ones. A few families decided to take their chances and head for the Ancient City, but I refused. I'd already been there once, and once was enough. The Ancient City is no place for children or any man for that matter."
"You've been to the Ancient City?" Melora asked, her surprise overshadowing her grief.
"Once, when I first fled Coventry."
A slew of questions filled her mind. "What's it like? How did you get there?"
"To tell you that, it'd make more sense to tell you how I left Coventry." Roger stared at the ground, smoothing the wrinkles from his dirt-ridden pants. He looked at the door and listened, as if someone might come through it. "And I'm not sure I can trust you." He slid his knife from his pants and made a show of spinning it.
"Who would I tell? Everyone I know is gone." Melora shook her head wearily.
Roger looked her up and down, as if still deciding. After a pause, he cleared his throat and spoke.
Chapter 47: Oliver
Oliver lay in his bed looking at the folded piece of paper that Scholar Evan had given him. He could feel the lump of the coin-filled purse under his pillow. It was starting to get dark out, but not yet late. He lay in bed not because he was tired, but because he was bored. Father Winthrop was in his chamber doing whatever he did with his private time. Franklin had been sent on some fool's errand for the Bishop.
All that meant to Oliver was that he was alone in the room he shared with Franklin, with nothing to do. He had his message to deliver, of course, but to leave the temple without permission was an offense he'd been beaten for so many times that he'd finally stopped sneaking out.
Still, Father Winthrop and Franklin were likely to be busy for a good part of the evening.
Oliver had wanted to deliver the note earlier that day after Scholar Evan had given it to him, but the Dunlow twins were drilling with the militia in the square. At no other time during the afternoon or the early evening did Oliver have a chance to excuse himself and get away on his own.
Now, he lay, looking at his note, deciding whether to unfold and read it.
He'd made no promise to Scholar Evan that he wouldn't read the message, though he'd understood the implication that the note was private. Oliver's curiosity was eating away at him. He'd already counted the coins, and as tempting as it was to keep a few for himself, he'd put them all back into the purse. He even gave thought to taking the whole the purse and running away to one of the villages, changing his name, finding himself a kind tradesman or merchant, and buying himself an apprenticeship. He'd have to be careful for a few years, but in time, he'd grow tall enough and different enough that no one would recognize him. Then, if he wanted, he could bring the balance of his money back to Brighton and put himself up in business. He'd have to figure out a way to dupe the census takers to make all that work. Or maybe he'd meet a pretty girl and settle down somewhere far from here. After all, was there any reason to return to Brighton? He had no family here, and Franklin was his only friend.
In fact, he hated Brighton most of the time. Sure, he knew he was lucky. He could be one of the futureless waifs in the orphanage. He was fed regularly, but never quite enough. Father Winthrop always ate most of what was on the table, and in Oliver's mind, that was exactly the state of Brighton and the three townships. A fat few took most of everything, and the peasants scraped by on the crumbs, always in fear of Blackthorn's blue shirts or Winthrop's pyre. And it was Winthrop's pyre. It was The Word that deemed that all men who were warty, smudged, bruised, or just disliked were burned. Blackthorn, apparent leader though he was, flexed the muscle that hauled the wailing doomed to the pyre pole. But Winthrop's Word put the fear in every heart of the thousands of peasants, so that when Blackthorn pointed at the pyre, none raised a hand to stop it.
Oliver understood that he was… What did Scholar Evan call it? Chattel. But so was nearly everyone else in town. Perhaps the only free people were those in the small villages or in the tiny outlaw settlements that he'd heard about. Perhaps that was where Oliver should go; find himself a small settlement far from the repression of the towns, and there he could live out his days doing as he wished. Perhaps there, a future might look like something besides dread and hunger.
Tired of wrestling with thoughts and temptations, Oliver stared at the carefully folded note in his hand.
He unfolded the paper.
Chapter 48: Melora
"Years ago, I was a merchant in Coventry. My trade was animal skins," Roger said, beginning his story. "I'd buy them from the hunters and turn them into rugs, coats, and hats. It wasn't the most prosperous living, but it was enough. One day, one of Blackthorn's captains came into town. He was drunk, and he didn't have enough money to buy the skin he wanted. He started knocking over my wares. He cursed at me. I told him to leave. And so he went to Father Woodrow of Coventry, telling him lies about me."
"What did he say?" Melora asked.
"He said I'd been spreading falsehoods about The Word. The Father must've seen through his drunkenness, and he dismissed him. But the captain's ego was large enough that he wouldn't let it die. The next day, when he was sober again, he went back and told the Father I'd been hiding my profits, that I'd been avoiding the town's tithes. The accusation was untrue, but it was a serious one. I was to plead my case in front of the town at The Cleansing." Roger's voice trembled with anger, as if the events had occurred just yesterday, instead of some time ago. "I knew I wouldn't survive. Nobody would believe a merchant over a soldier."
"So what did you do?"
"All my friends and family abandoned me, knowing The Cleansing was the next day. They were afraid they'd be implicated. And so I didn't the only thing I could do—I fled that corrupt, shit-ridden town and the lying people in it." Roger's face hardened. "I used the rest of my silver to pay off one of the guards at the gate. Then I ran as fast as I could. From what I heard, they looked for me for months. I'm sure Blackthorn and the Captain have placed me on one of the census-taker's lists."
"And that's when you went to the Ancient City?"
"Yes. I lived there for several weeks."
"What's it like?"
At the mention of the ruins, the lines in Roger's forehead disappeared. His gravelly voice grew soft. "It's beautiful—the most beautiful place I've ever seen. But it's also dangerous. The ruins extend higher than any of the buildings in the townships. There are all types of metals there—metals of different sizes, shapes, and colors. Sometimes the settlers bring back pieces to the wild." He gestured at the walls. "Some of the scraps you see here were brought from the ruins, handed down from one settler to another."
"Did you find any treasures?"
"Yes, there are treasures. Things you couldn't imagine. But there are demons, too—more than I can count. I spent several weeks hiding in buildings and sifting through the rubble. I stumbled on valuable, beautiful things, but most were too heavy to carry. Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I recall the things I saw, and I wish I'd brought them back." Roger's eyes grew distant, enamored by the memory.
The Last Escape Page 18