by Tarah Benner
On instinct, Lark grabbed Denali and pulled him down into the underbrush. The footsteps were drawing closer, and she didn’t have a clue whom they might belong to.
A few seconds later, a shadowy figure staggered past — a woman with long hair, fine shoulders, and shapely hips. She came so close that Lark could have reached out and touched her, and as she stumbled through a thin shard of moonlight, Lark saw who it was.
Portia. Her shiny black hair was slightly disheveled, and her face was flushed as if she’d been running for a while.
Lark watched her go with a bite of suspicion. Portia lived more than a mile from the woods. She couldn’t have made it that far if she’d suddenly felt ill. She had to have been in the woods when the nausea struck.
What was she doing out there? Lark wondered. Mother Mercy enforced a strict nine o’clock curfew, and Portia was the absolute last person Lark would have expected to disobey Mercy’s rules.
But as Portia disappeared into the trees, a dull throb in Lark’s back reminded her why she was there. Denali took off toward the river, and Lark followed at an unsteady lurch.
Finding a creosote bush in the dark proved much more difficult than Lark had anticipated. She thought she’d seen one near the aspen grove several days before, but the familiar terrain she navigated so easily during the day all looked strange and threatening in the dark. The moonlight filtering through the trees wasn’t strong enough to illuminate Lark’s usual landmarks, and the plants she knew all seemed to blend together along the forest floor.
She knew she’d gone too far when the rush of water drowned out all other sounds. Being alone near the river when she was in such bad shape gave her pause, but she felt drawn to the water nonetheless.
In the uneven patches of moonlight trickling through the trees, the river looked like a wide conveyer belt carrying buckets of broken glass downstream. She followed the gentle curve of the water until she reached the spot directly across from the Seam.
At night, it looked like an endless black hole in the middle of the gorge, but she knew it formed a rough trail leading down the steep granite wall. People said that the Seam was much more treacherous than it looked — full of narrow, slippery stretches and steep drops over jagged rocks. Plenty of men had died on the descent, and yet the watcher had found a way.
Fighting the voice of reason ringing in her ears, Lark padded down the cool muddy bank toward the spot where the river wall reached the fence. She had no reason to think the watcher had left another message; Lark hadn’t even responded to the first one. But something inside her thought that if he’d seen her read his note, he might have written another.
There was no bottle bobbing among the weeds this time — no evidence that the watcher had been there at all. But when she followed the wall across the river with her eyes, Lark saw what looked like a dead tree sticking out of the water twelve or thirteen feet away. It must have gotten caught on its way downstream, and bobbing along in the inlet of two branches was a crumpled green plastic bottle.
Lark sucked in a sharp burst of air. Denali bounded up behind her, as if he sensed that Lark was about to do something foolish.
Ignoring the lightness in her head, Lark gripped the chain-link fence and started to climb. The cold metal links cut into her palms and the wounds on her back burned, but she hardly felt the pain as she propelled herself up the fence.
She reached the top in less than a minute. Now she faced the obvious problem of navigating over the spiral of razor wire along the edge.
Lark pulled her jacket from around her shoulders and, with great effort, tossed it over the strand of razor wire. It was heavy enough to push the wire down and protect her hands from the sharp-edged blades; Lark just hoped it didn’t rip her coat.
Transferring her weight to her arms, Lark swung her legs over the fence and dug her boot into one of the chain links. Pain erupted all over her back, and she hovered there for several seconds, breathing through the agony.
She climbed down with slow, careful movements, still gritting her teeth against the pain. She let herself drop the last couple of feet, shivering against the bitter night chill.
Denali whined, pawing miserably at the fence.
“Don’t judge me,” Lark muttered, turning back toward the water and shaking herself mentally.
This was insane. She knew that. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from retrieving that bottle. Stripping off her boots and socks, she took a deep breath and waded into the freezing water.
She guided herself slowly into the river, holding on to the wall for support. Lark’s feet instantly went numb, and she had to grit her teeth to stop them from chattering.
The current kept pushing her against the wall, and it was all she could do to keep moving toward the downed tree. It was bobbing like a cork just above the water’s surface, near the center of the river.
Lark’s limbs felt very heavy as she pulled herself along, and when her feet left the ground, her shoulder slammed into the hard stone. She gasped and accidentally sucked in a large mouthful of water.
Choking and spluttering, she propelled herself forward, ignoring the stinging cuts up and down her back. She reached out a hand to grab the bottle, and the current rammed her into the wall once again. She winced as the pain reverberated down her shoulder but kept on pulling herself through the water.
Finally, her fingers closed over the cool green plastic, and Lark felt a surge of triumph. Inside was a small piece of paper rolled into a tight cylinder.
Tingling with anticipation, she pivoted on the spot and used the wall to guide herself back to shore. Her feet fumbled over the cold, slimy rocks when she reached the bank, and she immediately collapsed on the cool mud.
She wanted to open the bottle right there, but her teeth were chattering, and her feet were numb. She needed to get warm.
Feeling clumsy from the cold, Lark climbed back over the fence, wrapped her jacket around her middle, and dropped to the ground. Denali rushed over and immediately started licking her face, but she pushed him away and stared down at the bottle.
She didn’t know why she felt so invested in the watcher’s messages, but suddenly they were all she cared about. She’d climbed a twelve-foot fence and swam through icy waters to get to the bottle. She knew her obsession was unhealthy, but she couldn’t bring herself to her senses.
Lark’s fingers felt ten sizes too big as she twisted off the bottle cap and withdrew the tiny scrap of paper. Clutching her jacket around her shoulders for warmth, she held the note up to the light and read with hungry eyes.
A great wall seems impenetrable
’til an army knocks it down
A city booms and grows from gold
’til all the mines shut down
Kings and titans must be prideful, determined to prevail
But one day or another, their best-laid plans will fail
Lark read the note once very quickly and again at a slow, deliberate pace. By the third time she’d read it, a deep burn of dissatisfaction had erupted in the pit of her stomach.
She’d been so desperate to get her hands on the watcher’s message, but she’d been expecting something much different. The poem was torturously short and didn’t make a lot of sense.
She supposed the watcher could have meant the first two lines to be taken literally, but nobody was toppling the walls of San Judas anytime soon. Nobody had ever come close to escaping the prison.
Despite the lingering disappointment that his message hadn’t been more direct, Lark’s entire body was tingling with excitement. He may have left her with nothing but that nonsensical poem, but he’d reached out again. He’d spoken to her the only way he knew how, and there was no longer any doubt in her mind that he’d been watching the day she retrieved the first bottle from the river. The thought gave Lark a dangerous thrill that made her forget all about her shredded back.
Still shaking from the cold and the nervous energy coursing through her body, Lark buried the bottle in the mud and tuck
ed the note into her pants pocket. Denali, seemingly relieved that Lark was back on dry land, led the way through the woods and back up to the colony.
Lark moved silently over the dry, rocky earth until they reached the house with a light burning in the window. Denali brushed against her leg to slip inside, and Lark followed.
“What the hell?” snapped a voice the second she shut the door.
Lark jumped.
Bernie was sitting upright on her bed, staring at Lark as if she’d grown two heads.
“Hey,” said Lark, running a nervous hand around her wet braid.
“Where have you been?” asked Bernie.
“I went to the river for some creosote leaves,” said Lark, realizing too late that she’d completely forgotten about the leaves.
“What?”
“They, uh, prevent infection.”
“Yeah,” said Bernie, crossing her arms over her chest. “I got that covered.”
She gestured to the bedside table, where a bottle of hydrogen peroxide had appeared.
“How did you get that?” Lark asked. First-aid supplies were hard to come by in San Judas, and the healers carefully rationed the few items they’d been given.
Bernie scowled.
“What?” asked Lark, slightly annoyed that Bernie was dousing all the joy she had felt from finding another note.
“I had it covered, okay?” Bernie spluttered.
“Okaaay.”
“You’re not the only one who can handle shit, you know. I can handle myself just fine.”
“I know that.”
“No, you don’t!” yelled Bernie, her usually cheerful face reddening.
Lark shook her head, utterly lost.
“I know you, Lark!” she said after a moment. “You took my place up there because you thought I couldn’t handle it. You and Rita protect me like I’m a baby, but I can take care of myself!”
Lark deflated. Now she knew why Bernie was so angry. “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry!”
“Look, I didn’t —”
“You didn’t think I was strong enough,” said Bernie, her big brown eyes flashing with tears.
“That’s not true.”
“Then why did you do it?” Bernie cried. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know,” said Lark.
“Then why did you?”
Lark opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“Do you know what that was like?” Bernie hissed. “Watching you take those lashes for me?”
Lark bristled, a surge of indignation rising up in her chest. “Yeah, I do,” she snapped. “I’ve seen six of Mercy’s performances, Bern. Trust me . . . You didn’t want that.”
“It wasn’t up to you!” Bernie cried. “I’m the one who started the fight. I should have taken that beating — not you.”
“I said I was sorry,” said Lark. “Can we just forget about it?”
Lark didn’t expect Bernie to give up that easily, but she didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to peel off her wet clothes and go to sleep.
Bernie’s scowl deepened. She crossed her arms over her chest, still glowering at Lark, but then the fight seemed to drain out of her as quickly as it had come. “Yeah . . . Okay.”
There was a long pause. “At least let me disinfect those wounds.”
Lark nodded gratefully and collapsed onto the bed. She let her jacket fall, and Bernie helped her out of her sodden shirt.
“Why are you all wet?” she asked. “Did you climb the fence?”
“Yeah. I —”
“Holy shit!” Bernie screeched. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” Lark lied.
“This isn’t nothing, Lark,” she said, examining her wounds with renewed worry. “This is worse than it was before.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re so full of shit,” said Bernie, dunking a rag into the fresh bowl of water and wringing it out.
But instead of diving straight into the first-aid mission, she moved around to Lark’s side and gave her a sharp slap on the leg. “Spill!”
Lark sighed. She knew she shouldn’t say anything to Bernie about the watcher, but she was dying to tell someone. And even if she didn’t tell her, Bernie would know something was up.
Lark had to take several long, cleansing breaths before she was ready to put her secret into words. Bernie was staring at her with wide, expectant eyes, so Lark grabbed her pillow and pulled open the button tabs.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to show you something.”
“You’re not” — Bernie glanced out the open window to make sure they couldn’t be overheard — “using, are you?”
“Come on!” Lark hissed. “You know me.”
“Then what —”
“Just read it,” said Lark, pulling out the tiny scrap of paper and pressing it into Bernie’s hand.
For several seconds, Bernie just stared at the paper, studying the first poem the watcher had left with a puzzled look.
Lark could tell when she’d finished, though, because Bernie met her gaze with a wary expression.
“Today he left me this,” Lark added, pulling the little piece of paper out of her pocket and passing it to Bernie.
“He?”
Lark didn’t answer. Bernie held the poem up to the light and read it with the same terrified intensity that she’d read the first one. When she’d finished, she shook her head in bewilderment.
“Where did you get these?” she asked.
“Someone sent them to me.”
Bernie stared at her for several seconds. “What do you mean they sent them to you?”
“I mean someone on the other side of the river sent me two messages in a bottle — literally.”
“Are you saying . . .” Bernie swallowed. “You’re . . . You’re telling me that someone from the men’s colony has been contacting you?”
Lark nodded.
“Are you crazy?”
“Keep your voice down!” Lark hissed.
But Bernie was near hysterics. “Do you know what would happen if you were caught?” she whispered frantically.
“Yeah.”
Bernie shook her head. “Why did you go back to the river? You have no idea who this guy is. He could be a rapist or a murderer or a —”
“I’m a murderer,” said Lark evenly.
“That’s different.”
Lark shook her head. “I can’t explain it, but I know who this is. He was there today at the supply drop. I saw him.”
“How do you know it was him?”
Lark shook her head. She couldn’t explain it.
“Exactly. You don’t know. You have no idea —”
“So what?”
“Lark . . . listen to me,” said Bernie, speaking in short, clipped syllables as if she were talking to a child. “Whoever he is . . . he isn’t worth it.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
“But what if he’s right?” Lark lowered her voice and glanced once out the window. “What if there really is a way to escape?”
“Where does it say that?”
“Read between the lines, Bern! ‘A great wall seems impenetrable ’til an army knocks it down . . .’ What else could it mean?”
When Lark looked up this time, Bernie was no longer wearing an expression of horror. She was staring at Lark with unmistakable pity.
“Even if he were right,” said Bernie. “Even if there were some way to escape, why would this guy be sending you these messages? He doesn’t even know you.”
Lark didn’t answer. She didn’t know why the watcher would single out her of all people.
Deep down, she knew that communicating with him was a terrible idea. Maybe there was no hidden meaning behind his poems. And even if there was, the watcher could be unhinged or messing with her for sport.
But when Lark lay down on her stomach and closed her eyes, she saw only wide-open spaces. She drift
ed off to sleep as Bernie cleaned her wounds and dreamt of walking out of San Judas into a lush green canyon.
In her dream, there were no walls or fences. She was able to walk away from it all — leaving her past and the prison behind.
seven
Lark
The next morning, Lark awoke in agony. The skin on her back was shriveled and scabbed, and her muscles ached from shivering.
Moving carefully, she pushed herself into a seated position and cringed as a couple of scabs cracked open. She could feel the hot, sticky mixture of blood and pus trickling down her back, and she wondered if it was possible for her skin to have shrunk two sizes.
“Careful!” yelped Bernie, rushing over to her with a jar in hand.
“What’s that?” asked Lark, squinting through the pain. The jar was filled with a yellowish-green goop flecked with dark chunks of herbs.
“Salve from the healers,” she said, sitting down behind Lark and slathering some of the cool goo over her back. “I got it this morning.”
Lark cringed. The healers were a persnickety bunch, and they kept their coveted positions by following the rules. They didn’t usually step in to treat injuries from fights, and they almost never helped when Mercy singled out an inmate to punish. The only way Bernie could have gotten the salve was by trading something of value.
“What did you have to give them?” Lark asked with a grimace.
“Just those gloves I made . . . No biggie.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” hissed Lark, biting back the pain as the salve worked its way into her lacerations.
She knew the gloves Bernie was talking about. She’d been piecing them together for months from scraps of leather and burlap.
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Thanks,” Lark muttered.
Within seconds, a light cooling sensation started where Bernie had applied the salve. It grew and grew, easing the pain from Lark’s wounds until things like standing and dressing seemed almost manageable.
It was a good thing, too. According to Bernie, Mercy had ordered all available field hands to get to work finishing the soil preparation so they could plant the seeds they had in reserve. She’d pulled half the maintenance crew to clean out the acequias, sending a clear message that they were to behave as though everything was normal.