When they met on the beach two days ago, Janey suggested that Vanessa try harder to inveigle information from Father, but Vanessa knows this is futile. She has spent her whole life using everything she has—her body, her voice, her words, her smiles—in order to find out more about the wastelands. Father knows how to push aside her questions with a calm, easy voice, as if he had been taught from an early age to deflect the curiosity of daughters. Perhaps he has. Perhaps soon he will begin to indoctrinate Ben in the art of closing off the world to those who seek it.
Father is a dead end, but Vanessa has other sources now. Perhaps the new Adams do not know, yet, how to turn away those who are persistent. Vanessa has to beg or trick Mrs. Adam into telling her of the wastelands. She shies away from the idea of more time with Mr. Adam, remembering how he swelled darkly over her in the library. He seems like he would extract something vital from her in exchange for information, like her lungs or her teeth.
On the other hand, Vanessa quite likes Mrs. Adam. She is hesitant and gentle, with the mannerisms and speech of a child. Unlike most adults, she looked at Vanessa with a bright face, like she couldn’t wait to speak with her. If Vanessa could talk to Mrs. Adam without Mr. Adam interfering, she would do it even without an ulterior motive. She thinks she knows how.
For a week’s worth of afternoons, Vanessa lurks about the Adam household like a hungry dog lured by the promise of scraps. Finally she sees Mrs. Adam drift vaguely toward the garden and rushes to meet her. “Mrs. Adam!” she says breathlessly.
Mrs. Adam starts. “Vanessa!” she says just as breathlessly. “How nice to see you. How are you?”
“Well,” says Vanessa, feeling almost shy. “Are you going to garden?”
“I’m going to try,” says Mrs. Adam, laughing a little. “The women have been trying to explain to me what to do, but I’m just hopeless. I hope I don’t kill everything.”
“You won’t,” says Vanessa encouragingly, “I’m sure you won’t.” She pauses. “Would you like me to help you?”
“That would be lovely,” breathes Mrs. Adam. “Are you good at gardening?”
“Oh, yes,” lies Vanessa, who is so averse that Mother doesn’t even bother forcing her anymore. “I love it.”
“Oh, good,” says Mrs. Adam. “I was going to weed.”
Even though Vanessa rolls happily in the mud every summer, she can’t stand pulling spiky plants out of rich, fertilized muck. “I love weeding,” she says with flagging conviction.
Pulling up the skirt of her dress and the ends of her thick-knit shawl, Mrs. Adam kneels on the cold ground. “How do you tell which one is a weed?” she asks.
Vanessa also kneels, her kneecaps becoming frigid within seconds. “Well,” she says brightly, “it takes practice.”
Carefully, Mrs. Adam begins pulling strips of plants from the garden that seem like they might not belong. Vanessa, trying to appear patient and calm, does the same. They make a little pile of greenery between them. “How are you settling in?” asks Vanessa.
“Oh, everyone is so kind,” says Mrs. Adam cheerfully. “People are helping us with everything. I don’t know how to sew, or, or scrub things with sand, or cook over a fire, goodness no. Everyone is so willing to show me things, twice, usually.”
Vanessa instantly realizes that this means that people in the wastelands do not sew, or scrub things, or cook over fires. She wants to interrogate Mrs. Adam immediately, but has learned from her interaction with Mr. Adam in the library. She simply says, “Oh?”
“Oh, yes, I either burn things or they’re raw. Luckily Clyde is patient with me. More than usual, since he’s learning so much too. It’s so different here.”
Vanessa has to bite her tongue, hard, until her questions slide back down her throat and can be swallowed. “I’m sure,” she says.
“It will be normal in no time,” prattles Mrs. Adam. “It just takes time. That’s what Clyde says. He was so eager to come here, and I’ve never seen him happier. And it is so lovely here, so lovely. Like nothing I’ve seen. It was hard to come here, to leave everything behind, but the beauty of it—the trees!—that helps.”
Vanessa sorts carefully through a variety of responses and checks to make sure Mrs. Adam is distractedly peering at a plant before saying, “Who do you miss most?”
“My grandmother,” says Mrs. Adam. “I’ll never see her again, and that’s hard.”
Vanessa sits up on her heels, her hand full of leafy vine, and gapes at Mrs. Adam. “Your grandmother?” she says.
“She was—is—such a love,” murmurs Mrs. Adam. “Her name is Elizabeth. Now, she could have sewn things.”
“How old are you, Mrs. Adam?” asks Vanessa softly.
“Me? I’m twenty-seven,” replies Mrs. Adam.
Vanessa’s head reels, and she reaches out and pulls out a plant at random, trying to keep her face neutral. At twenty-seven, Mrs. Adam should be a grandmother herself. How old must her grandmother be? Why didn’t she have to take a final draft? Could her husband be supremely useful in some way?
“And your grandfather?” she says in what she hopes is a light tone.
“Oh, he died years ago,” says Mrs. Adam. “He was wonderful too.”
“I see,” mutters Vanessa, pulling out bigger and bigger handfuls of foliage and trying to control herself.
“Vanessa,” chirrups Mrs. Adam suddenly, “I think you’ve pulled out a carrot.”
Vanessa jumps, and looks at a tiny orange root growing from a flock of green stems. “Oh,” she says.
“At least I think so, let me see.” Mrs. Adam runs her fingers over the root, brings it to her mouth, and then says, “Oh,” and puts it down.
“What is it?” asks Vanessa.
“I…I forgot what you use to fertilize plants here,” says Mrs. Adam.
“What of it?” replies Vanessa, confused.
“Well, it’s, let’s just say, the humanness of it…I just don’t want to eat it.”
“A carrot?” Vanessa peers at the root, sniffs it, and takes a bite. “Yes, it’s a carrot.” Looking up, she sees Mrs. Adam looking faintly ill.
“I’m sure you get used to it.” Mrs. Adam gulps. “I mean, I think I’m almost used to the smell. I must say, when I first arrived I couldn’t stop, you know, puking. Maybe it’s the baby. Clyde didn’t mind as much, but me, I would wake up, take a breath, and puke.”
“I guess it does smell kind of strong,” agrees Vanessa. “You don’t notice it after a while.”
“Strong,” says Mrs. Adam with a brave smile. “That’s the word.”
They grin at each other for no reason.
“So,” says Vanessa. “What did you like to eat? In the wastelands?” But at the word “wastelands” Mrs. Adam’s face falls, and Vanessa feels her heart sink.
“I can’t tell you anything about the wastelands,” whispers Mrs. Adam dramatically, like that very inability is a secret that must be guarded. “Clyde says I mustn’t. And the wanderers, they were so…forceful. From the time the one came to see me at—in the wastelands.”
“Of course,” says Vanessa. “How stupid of me.”
“Oh, but I’m sorry,” says Mrs. Adam in a normal tone. “You must be just dying to know. I would be dying to know!”
Vanessa smiles tightly. “Just dying,” she agrees. She rises and goes to kneel near Mrs. Adam, their thighs pressed against each other.
“Which wanderer was it?” asks Vanessa, after a time. “Who came to see you?”
“I don’t—I don’t think I can say. But he was so, so tall and sure of himself and dressed in that black coat. He asked me so many questions.”
“Like what?”
“Was I prepared to take the ancestors into my heart, was I prepared to accept Clyde’s authority and his authority. He told me a lot of things too.”
“What did he tell you?” asks Vanessa eagerly.
“Well, about the island, of course. How things are. Not everything, but most things, you know? And we were so happy to b
e chosen. Although Clyde said a lot of people wouldn’t go, because of the final draft and the daughters, but it didn’t bother him.”
“What daughters?”
“You know, he saved me, he really did, I was such a wreck and he saved me. So I couldn’t say no to anything he wanted. Plus, it really is so beautiful.”
“Saved you from what?”
“Just…not a good life. I was doing things I shouldn’t have done. I mean, I didn’t have any choice, but all the same, they were bad things.”
Vanessa stares at Mrs. Adam’s wide, shallowly set brown eyes. “What things?”
“Oh, no,” says Mrs. Adam, shaking her head. “Even if I could tell you everything, I wouldn’t tell you that. It’s not for children.”
“I’m not a child,” snaps Vanessa.
“But you are,” says Mrs. Adam, smiling in bewilderment at her. “Of course you are.”
Vanessa is silent for a moment, and then says, “So Mr. Adam saved you. And then brought you here.”
“Yes,” she says, eager again. “He’s such a good man, really.”
Slowly, Vanessa says, “He saved you from the fires.”
“Fires?”
“Pastor Saul says everything is on fire,” murmurs Vanessa, less to Mrs. Adam than herself. She is surprised to find a cool, dusty palm on her cheek.
“Vanessa, Clyde told me about how you tried to get him to answer your questions,” Mrs. Adam says fondly. “How much you want to know. I’ve never been like that, but I admire it.”
Vanessa puts her hand over Mrs. Adam’s, and waits.
“There’s…” Vanessa can see Mrs. Adam struggling to string words together. “You’re so bright. I’m not surprised you want to know everything you can.” She pauses. “But it’s not a good thing. It won’t make you happy.” More silence. “My whole life, I’ve learned to not question things. It doesn’t do any good, really. You usually learn what you didn’t want to learn, and still don’t know what you wanted to know.” A sigh. “I mean, knowing things, it can really hurt.”
“But Mrs. Adam,” whispers Vanessa, clinging to the hand on her jaw, “what if the hurting isn’t the most important part? What if it’s not even worth considering?” She swallows. “What if you were going to hurt anyway?”
Mrs. Adam blinks, and a tear crawls down her face. “Are you hurting, Vanessa?” she asks softly.
Vanessa can’t answer. Suddenly she feels that she is the adult, and Mrs. Adam is the child who needs to be protected. “Not all the time,” she gasps, and it’s the most comforting thing she can manage. She digs her fingers deep into the earth and closes her eyes, as if she can feel the soil groan and settle under her numb knees.
Chapter Thirty
Janey
It’s a drizzly day, soft ash-colored mist lying heavily on the bare branches of trees. Mary shifts and shivers, but Janey can tell she is trying to bear the cold and wet without complaint. They are ankle-deep in muck at the edge of the shore, gazing at the spot among the reeds where the ferry comes and goes. Near the dock is a huge, hunched, arthritic willow whose branches slump to graze the surface of the water. Janey and Mary stand half crouched with their hands on its dry, pimpled bark, watching for the raft to come to shore.
“They’re going to see us,” whispers Mary. “You know we aren’t supposed to be here.”
“They won’t see us,” replies Janey curtly, “they would have to be looking for us.” But then, glancing at Mary again, she lifts her sweater so it shields her bright hair, and suddenly there is no vivid color anywhere.
When they hear the slow, sucking sounds of the ferryman’s pole, they crouch further, so the muddy water grabs hold of their hems. The ferry hisses to a stop among the grasses, and two wanderers disembark, draped in black. They nod to the ferryman and then begin striding across the grass in their leather shoes toward their homes. One has a bundle wrapped in cloth under his arm.
“Let’s go,” whispers Janey.
“We have to wait until they’re out of sight,” murmurs Mary back to her.
“They won’t look back. Come.” She grabs Mary’s elbow with a strong hand. They want to run, but the wet grass and mud make them slip and slither, and eventually they clop along in their wooden clogs as quickly as the ground will allow.
The ferry is floating on soft swells like a dozing seabird, the ferryman sitting on a strange box on top of the boards. He appears to be breathing fire. Smoke billows out from behind his cracked white hand, but then his fingers move to reveal that he is pulling with fleshless, sallow lips on a cylindrical piece of paper. He breathes in, the paper burning redly at the end, and then opens his mouth and emits a rolling, graceful flood of oyster-colored smoke.
Janey walks toward the raft, more hesitant now, and he looks up at her abruptly. He is wearing his strange hat with a brim just on the front, beaten and weathered to the point of colorlessness. His iron-hard face is all slabs and angles: broad sheets of cheekbone, a once-broken nose that shies away toward the right, a thin mouth pulled up into a sneer by a scar on the upper lip. His eyes are all but hidden by the shadow of his hat and by the dimness of evening.
Janey opens her mouth, then closes it and waves the man forward weakly. The man stares at her, his eyes shrouded in black, and then shrugs more slowly than she thought it was possible for a man to shrug. Languidly, he picks up his pole and pushes once more toward shore. Janey turns to Mary and holds out her trembling hand.
Interlocking fingers, they walk slowly to the ferry: two girls, one tall and red-haired, one small and brown-haired, leaning into each other like they could not stand without the other. When the ferry touches the reeds, the ferryman spreads his hands as if to gesture, Well?
With a deep breath, Janey and Mary take off their shoes. The water bites frozen at their calves as they wade to the ferry and awkwardly clamber on. Janey wonders if she is dreaming, if this vessel only occupied by wanderers and exiles is real beneath her feet.
Up close, the ferryman smells of smoke and metal and something rotten. His face is swathed with small scars, from the slice on his upper lip to a smattering of pockmarks roughening his cheeks. The gray light catches his narrow eyes under the brim of his hat.
“Hello,” says Janey in a shy voice she has never heard emerge from her throat. “I suppose you’re not used to having girls on the ferry.”
Frowning, the ferryman stares at them.
“You see,” she says, growing louder, “we want to talk to you. We think…we think that you have valuable things to tell us.”
He coughs wetly into his fist and resumes gazing at them.
“About the wastelands,” continues Janey. “You’re from there. You live there. Unless you live on this raft, but that seems unlikely. We need to know things.”
Bringing the strange paper cylinder to his mouth, which Janey can now see is filled with what look like wood shavings, he inhales and then blows a cloud of gloom over them. She inhales to speak, coughs, and then starts again.
“You see, it’s…” She pauses. “We’re trapped here. We don’t know anything. About what happened, or how things are now.” She shifts and the ferry moves alarmingly under her. “We need to know what it’s like. In the wastelands. We have…questions.”
The ferryman sighs impatiently.
“I said we have questions. Will you answer them?”
He stares.
“No, that’s not—you need to—so my first question is about the scourge. What…” And she trails off because he is opening his mouth to speak.
Underneath the current of fear that consumes her, Janey feels a thrill run through her skin like the tingle before lightning strikes. Whatever this dark prophet says will be something new, uncharted, forbidden. She leans forward into his smoke-and-rot smell, his charcoal stare.
He is opening his mouth slowly, shakily, as if struggling against some unseen force that binds it shut. His lips splay wider and wider, and now Janey wonders if his jaw will dislocate, or if his cheeks will sp
lit and ooze like the skin of a smashed fruit. She feels an urge to run, but her morbid fascination is stronger. The ferryman gestures at his open mouth with a crooked finger. As if in response, a ray of sun splinters through the clouds to bathe the island in light.
Janey follows the ray into his mouth and then croaks, a strangled indrawn breath. She sees a carcass, a rot, obscene folds of flesh.
The ferryman has no tongue.
It is not a clean cut; half of his tongue was shorn at the stump, but a few trembling muscles bound by scarred flesh remain and twist dumbly, like a trapped, eyeless creature straining toward the light.
Mary shrieks. Janey manages not to, but gives a guttural moan, and they both turn and leap off the ferry into the icy water, their legs raw and shivering, and splash frantically toward shore. Forgetting their shoes, they take off barefoot, their soles sliced by half-frozen grass as they race away from the water. Janey’s lungs smolder and her skin erupts in chill sweat. “Home,” mutters Mary unconsciously, and at that Janey stops her.
“No!” screams Mary, turning to look back wildly over her shoulder, even though they are far out of sight from the ocean, from anyone, and are standing in a field next to Mr. Balthazar’s plum trees.
“Stop,” says Janey, also out of breath. “Stop. We’re safe.”
“Who cut out his tongue?” cries Mary. “Was it the wanderers? We spoke to him, what if he tells—what if he tells—”
“Breathe,” commands Janey shakily, her face nearly bloodless. She tries not to think of the tongueless ferryman exhaling fumes. “Just breathe in and out.” Mary starts to cry, falling to her knees. Janey kneels and wraps her in a tight embrace. “Breathe,” she says again.
Gather the Daughters Page 17