by Otter Lieffe
She watched as an army of ghosts walked across the land. Ancestors, armed and furious, the extinct, the forgotten, wave after wave invading the City and reclaiming what was theirs.
Ahead of her stood a terrifying thing. The absence of a thing rather than a thing in itself. A shadow cast by no-one; the brightest of holes, a gap in the world itself.
The no-thing was growing and as it became bigger it spun around, greedily sucking the world into its own emptiness. With a deafening roar, the trees, the buzzards, the land itself were consumed by its nothingness, pulled irresistibly into its whirl.
Ash felt that pull. She was being dragged in, too. She knew there was nothing good left here. There was nothing for her to do. She stopped resisting and allowed herself to be taken.
She woke up gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. The sun was setting.
I must have slept the entire afternoon.
As she caught her breath, she began to feel the knowledge of what she had witnessed aching deeply in her bones. Something's coming. Something that has been consuming this land for longer than anyone could remember. Something that will take all of us unless we can keep running.
She got up and quickly pulled on her shoes. She had to get to get back to the cottage.
She had to tell Pinar right away.
Chapter twenty-nine
An hour later, panting and sweating from the run, Ash arrived at the little cabin in the woods. But Pinar was nowhere to be seen. She looked inside the cottage, near the fire circle, in the herb garden. There was no sign of her friend anywhere. It was almost completely dark, and Ash was more worried by the second.
Where is she?
The family of crows were back on the roof and as, she looked at them, the oldest, a female, called out. A deep craaawk that went straight to Ash's old heart. And she knew.
She heard the crack of a twig near the edge of the woods signalling someone's approach. It was Pinar. She looked awful. Her long hair was in knots and her eyes were red from the tears that streaked her face. She carried a large bottle of water filled from the well, but she hadn't closed it properly and it was leaking all over her dress.
“My darling, they took Jason, didn't they?”
Ash held her close and Pinar collapsed into tears. When she could speak again, she stepped back a little, stared at the floor and spoke frantically.
“A runner from the resistance arrived this morning just after you left—the State took him—he's being taken to prison. That's all I know. I never should have let him leave. I have to go right now. I have to help him.”
“Slow down, breathe. Did the runner leave directions to the camp?”
“Yes.”
“Then we'll find him. We'll find him together.”
Pinar looked up through her tangled hair, with something like hope in her eyes.
“You'd go to the City for me? You'd really do that? But you swore you'd never go back. I could never ask you to—”
“Honey,” she said, softly, embracing her friend. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
3. Journeys
Chapter thirty
It was barely dawn and most of the village was awake. A cockerel called incessantly from his favourite tree as a gang of squealing children took turns throwing each other into the warm, shallow waters of the river.
Elias was beginning to hate them. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes.
Every damn morning it's the same. I need to get my boat moving and get as far away as possible.
But with the drought, Elias' boat home was thoroughly stuck in the riverbed and, until it rained again, he wasn't going anywhere. A splash of water hit the window closest to his bed.
Enough is enough.
Elias got out of bed and, still in his pyjamas, climbed out onto the deck.
“It's the middle of the night!” he shouted. “Go and help out in the kitchen or something, you noisy little—”
“But Mr E,” a wet child called back from the middle of the river, “it's morning!”
“For the hundredth time, my name is Elias. El-i-as. Now go away!”
“Yes, Mr E. Sorry, Mr E.”
Still squealing and giggling, the kids climbed out of the water and ran towards the kitchen tent.
“I still hate them,” he mumbled to himself.
They don't even call me by my real name.
Elias had been called Elias for the first five decades of his life, but just over twenty years before, in response to massive economic collapse, the State began to lose control over its subjects and a crackdown began. Like an abusive lover who gripped ever tighter the more it lost control, the State began imposing a whole swathe of restrictions on society, eventually coming to include language and naming.
Just the previous week, Elias had taught a class about the Franco dictatorship of Spain which in 1938 banned all names that weren't religious or traditionally Spanish from being given to newborns. For a while, Basques and Catalans could no longer call their children Basque or Catalan names and, as a result, Maria became such a common name that it received its own abbreviation: Ma.
Franco knew that nothing was as important to people as their names. Following a long history of similar repression, the State reduced the name of everyone in the land down to one single letter of the English alphabet and overnight, Elias had become E.
After all this time, he still found it ridiculous. Out here in the forest we're free from all that nonsense. Why can't we go back to using our real names?
But Elias knew as well as anyone that culture can be stubborn and no matter how much he tried, everyone in his village was used to having a letter for a name. Anyone under the age of twenty had never known anything else. So, I'm E, or Mr E, whether I like it or not.
The cockerel was still calling from his perch.
We should just eat the damn noisy thing already.
Elias wouldn't go back to sleep now so he stretched out and put on his glasses. Tied together with string, they had been fixed more times than he could remember.
As battered and useless as I feel.
“I'd kill for a coffee.” He scratched his grey beard, stood up and started looking for his clothes.
* * *
The kitchen tent was already full by the time Elias got there. Adults and children spread out under the shade of the tent and pine trees, signing and eating and sharing their dreams from the night before. The sun hadn't even climbed above the mountains yet, but it was already hot and the Sett, as the resistance village was known, was buzzing with life. Colleagues and friends swarmed around Elias before he even sat down with his breakfast.
“Another hot one, eh E?”
“Mm.”
Elias was doing his best to ignore everyone around him, but seemed to be failing.
“What are you drinking there? Herbal tea of some kind?”
“Hawthorn. Or mud, it's hard to tell the difference really.”
“For your heart?”
“Mm.”
It was only a small attack and even that was two years ago. Why does everyone keep making such a fuss about it?
“It's good that you're taking care of yourself. You're important to us, E.”
No matter how much Elias tried to avoid people, they always wanted to be with him. He knew he was considered an elder by much of the community, but as far as Elias was concerned, he was a grumpy, old man and had no idea why they should love him so much. The others chatted around him while he ate in moody silence.
“I'm so excited about Harvest Day. I hope L makes her famous squash soup again.”
“She always makes it. It wouldn't be Harvest Day without it. Though the gardening group actually harvested everything nearly two months ago.”
“I know! Another year like this and we're going to have to rewrite the calendar. It barely makes sense anymore as it is.”
“It seems to be a bit worse each year. I honestly remember when clima
te change wasn't even a thing. Or it was a thing, but no-one wanted to talk about it—”
“—Things only ever get worse!” grumbled Elias, suddenly joining in the conversation with his mouth full. “That's the whole of history right there. No-one cared enough about the planet when they could have actually changed things, when things still worked. It all went to shit, and now here we are stuck out in the dust eating sticks and drinking mud.”
He took a loud sip of his hawthorn tea to make his point.
An awkward silence followed his outburst. Everyone had too much respect for Elias to contradict him so they focused on their food instead. Eventually one of his colleagues tried to change the subject.
“So E, I heard you're teaching about the history of USL today? That sounds like a fun class.”
“It'll be fine.” Elias pushed his wooden stool out and stood up. “Excuse me.”
He escaped the kitchen tent and headed back towards his boat-house. It would probably be too hot in there by now to sleep, but he wanted to rest before school started.
I need all the energy I have to face those damned kids.
As he stepped out into the clearing between tents, he saw how perfectly blue the sky was and felt himself relax a little.
I probably shouldn't complain so much. My colleagues aren't really so bad.
Eight years ago most of these people had still lived in the City and were total strangers to one another. Some had worked placements; some had lived in the street. Some, like Elias, had fought with the resistance. But in the end they were all forced to leave, to escape to this sanctuary in the forest.
It certainly beats being locked up in a State cell. Which would have been the best of the other options.
Despite his complaining, Elias knew he was lucky to be part of this community. Part of living in the Sett was giving back valuable work. Elias had decided he was too old for anything physical, so helping out with the small primary school seemed like a good compromise. In no time at all, he was designated the main history teacher and was giving classes every day.
He adored history. In many ways he considered it his one true love. His goal was to train the kids to think critically, to analyse things for themselves, to never trust the official version of events.
They're so impatient, though. Too full of energy to concentrate. Not like when I was young.
Thinking of the chaotic class ahead of him, Elias descended into a bad mood again.
“Things are always worse,” he mumbled as he kicked a pebble out of his way. “We're so fucking screwed.”
Chapter thirty-one
“The forest looks half dead here,” said Ash, pausing to look out at the dry brush and fallen pine needles around her. “Are we nearly at the camp?”
“I hope so,” said Pinar. “Are you tired? We could rest a bit?”
It was their third day hiking through the forest towards the resistance camp and, according to the directions the runner had left them, they should nearly have been there. Both exhausted from walking in the heat, they tried to rest during the hottest part of the day. Carrying heavy packs was hard work and, despite her best attempts to tie it up, Pinar's hair hung over her face in a sweaty, tangled mess.
“I've been tired for as long as I can remember,” grumbled Ash. “Let's push on. I do wish we had brought more food, though.”
“I can actually hear your stomach grumbling!” Pinar laughed. “Don't worry, we'll get there by this evening and I'm sure they'll have something ready for us.”
“I'm not quite as optimistic, but I hope you're right. I kind of wish the runner had stayed a bit longer to take us to the camp. Are you sure we're going the right way?”
“She had other people to alert.” Pinar held up an ancient compass, one of the few objects given to her by her father before he passed away, and looked at it thoughtfully. “Anyway, we'll be fine. I'm pretty sure of the way.”
“Well as long as you're pretty sure, then I feel much better.”
“Want to turn back?”
“No way. This is an adventure. Let's go rescue your boyfriend.”
Pinar didn't respond.
She's just teasing me, just hiding her exhaustion in humour like she always does.
But when Pinar thought about Jason, about what the runner had told her, she felt sick to her stomach. Apparently, he had been abducted in the night, taken by the State from where he was supposed to be meeting his friends. And from one moment to the next, he was no longer free.
We had better arrive soon, she thought to herself. We're not any safer ourselves out here alone.
For another hour, they pushed on through the dry forest until finally they heard voices and the sounds of cooking. The air was thick with wood smoke and the smell of nettle soup.
“Las prímulas lucharán—!” Ash shouted as they approached the camp.
“—And the land will be defended!” came the response.
“Ready for some terrible resistance cooking?” Pinar whispered as they entered the camp.
Ash's stomach growled.
“I've never been more ready in my life.”
* * *
“Alright, alright. Settle down. Settle…would you sit down already?!”
Elias' history class wasn't off to a great start. While he was underslept and in a particularly bad mood, the kids were as full of energy as ever.
I swear there's more of them than yesterday, he thought to himself. Sometimes I think people here do nothing but breed—there's never a time when someone isn't pregnant. We're eating sticks as it is, how many more of these screaming little monsters do we really need?
He finally managed to get his class sitting down in a teaching circle.
“Right, that's better. Ahem. So today we're talking about USL. Who can tell me—”
“Universal Sign Language!” three of the children called out in chorus.
“Yes, very good. But who can tell me why it's a misnomer—an…inaccurate name?”
Silence.
“Because it isn't really universal, and it isn't really a sign language.”
The kids sat and stared at their teacher. Signing was a big part of their lives. For once, he had their full attention.
“Why isn't it a real sign language? We use signs, don't we?” a young girl said and signed at the same time to illustrate her point.
“We do, but USL is just like English, only in sign. Real sign languages are totally different, different grammar, different word order and they grow from within deaf communities.”
“What's universal, Mr E?” asked one of the younger children.
“Something universal works everywhere. So, a universal language, for example, can be used by everyone. USL isn't more universal than any other language though. Some people use it and some people don't.”
“Why is it called universal then if it isn't universal?” asked the same child.
“There's an interesting story there that I'll get to later. But, in fact there is a Universal Sign Language which deaf people developed for meeting other deaf people who speak other sign languages, at international gatherings for example. You wouldn't understand a word of it, unless you speak a real sign language.”
“Do you speak a real sign language, Mr E?”
“It's Elia—oh never mind. I do, actually. My mother was deaf and I grew up speaking to her in LASL. Levantine Ar—”
“And, and, and!” interrupted one of the youngest boys enthusiastically. “You speak Arabic too, don't you, Mr E?”
“Yes, until it was forbidden by the State. Which brings me back to USL…”
Once they got started, the class went better than Elias expected. He explained how, back in 2019, the State imposed a ban on Arabic, Spanish and all the other spoken languages the State considered 'local' or 'migrant' and soon, English became the only State-sanctioned language. The only spoken language at least.
The State, as most hearing institutions do, forgot en
tirely about sign language.
“So back in the early 20's—" Elias said standing, surrounded by his students “—The resistance, which from the very beginning had deaf members like my mother, started using something called Manually Coded English as a secret language. Who knows what MCE is?”
Silence again.
“When I was young, before speaking people recognised sign languages as real languages, deaf schools worked mostly in MCE. It's basically English coded into sign—just like USL—and it was easier for hearing English speakers to learn than real sign languages. Pretty soon everyone in the resistance learned it and were using it to sign secret messages to each other. We called it RS, Resistance Sign.”
One of Elias' older students, one of the few that he really liked and who always paid attention, was waving her hand in the air.
“Yes, erm…H?” He was guessing really, he never managed to remember all their names.
“And didn't the State know?” asked H. “Didn't they realise what you were saying when you were signing?”
“I think it took a long time for them to realise that it was even communication. I'm sure they saw us signing, but just ignored—”
“But, but—” another student interrupted “Everyone speaks USL!”
“Not at the beginning, as I say. At that point, it was only really used and understood by deaf folks and the resistance and we only used it very carefully. Eventually, the State figured it out and co-opted…that is, they stole it from us.”
“Why?” asked H again, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Why didn't they just ban it like all the other languages?”
“Good question. Well this was at the end of the Coffee Wars and, as I told you last lesson, the State was becoming more and more economically isolated as other countries stopped trading with it because of its terrible human rights record.
“When the State saw RS, they thought we had created some kind of brand new sign language that everyone could learn easily. The State figured that they would present it to the world as a new lingua franca—do you know what that means?”