The Revolution of Ivy

by Amy Engel

  “You almost ready?” Ash says. She yawns, her jaw stretching against my arm.

  “Yes,” I say, but don’t move. The firelight is hypnotic, the way the flames jump and dance, the smoke weaving into the chilly night air. “I’m going to miss these bonfires.”

  Before Ash can answer, a shout comes from the far side of the fire. Followed closely by another. Ash’s head comes off my shoulder like a shot, both of us up and throwing the blanket behind us. Ash’s hand goes instantly to her knife, and mine is only a second behind.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Ash shakes her head, eyes locked on the direction of the sounds. All around us people are standing, bodies tense. I can still hear loud voices. And someone calling my name. Which makes no sense. I look at Ash and she looks back, eyes wide.

  Mark comes around the edge of the fire, a wild smile on his face. He has blood smeared across his lips and his shirt is torn. “Ivy!” he yells. “Just the girl we were looking for.”

  I stiffen, hand clutching my knife so hard I know my knuckles are white.

  “What’s going on?” Ash asks.

  “We found something for Ivy,” Mark says, moving closer. His eyes gleam in the firelight, his cheeks flushed. My whole body goes cold, the deer meat I ate earlier threatening to come right back up. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I know it’s bad. I know it’s nothing I want to see.

  “Where’s Caleb?” Ash takes a step toward Mark.

  “Right here, Ash.” Caleb’s voice floats from the far side of the fire, and Ash’s shoulders relax. I let out a breath that’s been bottled up in my throat.

  Caleb and another man step into the light. They are both injured like Mark, Caleb sporting what’s going to be a serious black eye, the other man with a bloody, dripping nose. They are dragging a third man between them. He must be unconscious, his dark head hanging down, his long legs limp on the ground, shoes leaving trails through the dry grass. My eyes know what they are seeing, but my brain refuses to make sense of the image. A sound bursts out of my throat, something between a sob and a scream.

  Caleb looks only at me as he drags the man forward. I hear his voice in my head, “It’s on you, Ivy. It’s on you.” But how could I have known? How could I have known it would come to this?

  “We brought you a present!” Mark shouts, practically vibrating with vicious joy.

  Caleb takes one final step and drops Bishop’s body at my feet.

  Chapter Eight

  “Oh my God, oh my God…” I repeat it like a chant, a prayer I’m not sure anyone will hear. I drop to my knees next to Bishop. He has to be alive; he has to be. I run my hands over his face, sticky with blood, the planes of his cheeks, the line of his jaw still so familiar to me. “Bishop?” I whisper. “Bishop…please.” I put one hand on his chest, feel the beat of his heart against my palm. My own heart stutters in response, something coiled tight slowly loosening in my chest.

  “What did you do to him?” I ask, looking up at Caleb. “What did you do?”

  “Beat the hell out of him,” Caleb says, face grim.

  “Why?” My hands fist in Bishop’s shirt, my voice spiraling up into hysteria.

  “Because he wouldn’t do what we told him,” Mark says with a grin.

  “I don’t…” I shake my head, trying to clear away the jumble of thoughts crowding my mind. “I don’t understand what he’s doing here.”

  “Who is he?” Ash asks, kneeling down beside me. Her eyes are round with worry, skipping between Caleb and me.

  “Bishop Lattimer,” Caleb says. I ignore the startled sounds from the people gathered around us, the heated murmurs. “Right?” Caleb asks me. His voice sounds like the old Caleb, the one who didn’t want me here. The one who wasn’t sure I was worth saving.

  I nod, my gaze returning to Bishop’s beaten face. I take my sleeve and wipe away the blood that’s oozing from a gash in his cheekbone. His upper lip is split open, his nostrils ringed with blood. More blood, dark and thick, is matted in his hair. All I want to do is lie down beside him and weep, bury my face in his neck and breathe him in until my lungs are so full there’s no room for anything else.

  “But you said you didn’t know him,” Ash says. “You said…” Her voice trails off, and I can’t look at her. I know what I’ll see: the eyes of someone who understands they’ve been deceived. The same look Bishop gave me when he realized I couldn’t be trusted. I know that look and it hurts too much; I can’t bear to see it again.

  “I think she should kill him,” Mark says conversationally. I rock back on my heels like he’s slapped me. “You’ve got that knife in your belt, always so quick to put your hand on it.” He gestures at Bishop. “He’s a Lattimer. He’s nothing to you.” Mark’s eyes dare me to contradict him. “So kill him. Make a statement.”

  “I’m not… I can’t…” My lips are numb, my tongue stumbling over the words. Behind me a few people are taking up Mark’s suggestion, the quiet rumble of their voices turning into a rising chorus of vengeance.

  “Come on, Ivy,” Mark taunts. “Now’s your chance to get back at President Lattimer for what’s he’s done to you.” His gaze leaves mine and moves to the larger group. “To all of us.”

  Someone behind me gives a yell of agreement, and I can feel the press of bodies moving forward. Soon the mob mentality will take over, and if I don’t do the job, they’ll be happy to step into the void. “No,” I cry out, bending over Bishop. And now my hand is on my knife, ready to use it on anyone who comes near him.

  “Stop it!” Caleb’s voice rings out. He shoulders Mark back, away from Bishop. “No one’s killing anyone.”

  “But—”

  “I said stop!” Caleb shouts at Mark. “Enough!” He scrubs at his face with one hand, and the firelight illuminates the cuts on his bruised knuckles, injuries he got beating Bishop. My stomach heaves. “We’re not killing him.” He speaks to the whole group, but his eyes are on Mark.

  “You don’t get to decide for everyone,” Mark says. “You’re not in charge here. Right?” he calls out. “I think this guy”—he kicks Bishop’s leg—“needs to pay for what his father’s done.”

  There’s a collective roar behind me, and I know Caleb and I aren’t going to be enough to hold them off for much longer. I stand up, careful to keep my body between the crowd and Bishop. The darkness and fading firelight throw uneven shadows across everyone’s faces, turning these people I’ve lived with the past weeks into strangers. A mob with blood on their minds.

  “Please,” I say. “He doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good person.”

  “He’s a Lattimer!” someone yells.

  “But he’s not President Lattimer!” I yell back.

  Someone separates from the crowd, and I raise my knife. “But you were put out because you wouldn’t marry him,” Elizabeth says. She looks more confused than angry. “Why are you defending him?”

  I glance over my shoulder at Caleb, his gaze serious on mine. I look back at Elizabeth. “I did marry him,” I tell her, fighting to keep my voice even. “He’s my husband.” A ripple of shock goes through the crowd, although I can’t tell if my admission makes their anger stronger or weaker. “It wasn’t my choice, but he was always good to me. He never hurt me.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” a voice yells from the back of the crowd. “He’s still a Lattimer.”

  “Wait!” another voice cries. An older man pushes toward the front. “I know him. I remember him. When I was put out, he came to the fence. He brought me food and water. Told me which way to go to find the river. He saved my life.”

  “Mine, too,” a woman’s voice calls.

  “You can’t kill him,” I say, looking at the older man. “You can’t.” I turn my attention to the crowd. “You’ll have to kill me, too.”

  Behind me I hear movement, and Caleb shoves Mark out of the way to come stand beside me. “We’re done here,” he says, voice firm. “I’m vouching for him. He’s not a threat to us. We aren’t animals.
We aren’t going to kill him. You’ll have to go through me to do it.”

  There’s some grumbling from the crowd, but people slowly begin to move back. “Come on,” Caleb says, voice low. “Let’s get him into a tent.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mark says. “I’m not helping.” He gives me one last glance before turning and fading into the darkness.

  “The three of us can carry him,” Ash says.

  Caleb takes Bishop’s shoulders, and Ash and I each grab a leg. It’s awkward moving him; he’s so tall, and his lifeless limbs keep slipping from our grasp. No one else offers to help, but they don’t interfere, either.

  “We can take him to our tent,” Ash says. Caleb opens his mouth to protest, but Ash just gives him a quick, tight-lipped shake of her head.

  “Put him on my cot,” I say once we’re through the entryway. The tent feels too small with all four of us inside, all the unspoken accusations taking up as much room as our bodies.

  “I’ll go get some water,” Ash says, ducking out again before I can even say a word.

  Caleb sinks down on Ash’s cot. His eyes, one glowing gold, the other virtually swollen shut, never leave me as I sit next to Bishop, brush his bloody hair off his forehead. “Is he going to wake up?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” Caleb says. “Although he may be sorry when he does.” He sighs. “He’s going to be hurting. He may have some broken ribs. And he took a pretty good knock to the head.”

  I tear my eyes away from Bishop. “You didn’t have to do this to him.”

  Caleb’s sitting slumped over, like he’s so exhausted he can’t even manage to remain upright. But at my words he straightens, points at me. “Don’t,” he says, voice harsh. “He wouldn’t listen to us. Wouldn’t do what we said. Just kept going after Mark, asking for you. Screaming your name.”

  “He knows Mark, knows what he—”

  “I asked you to tell me the truth, Ivy. I practically begged you.” He looks from me to Bishop. “I only had Mark’s word to go on out there, in the dark, with a strange man coming at us. I did what I had to do.” He pauses. “I could have killed him. I probably should have. But I wanted to hear what you had to say first.”

  I want to be angry at Caleb, but I can’t blame him, not really. The one I’m really upset with is myself. I wonder when I’m going to stop making decisions that end up hurting Bishop.

  “You ready to tell me the whole truth now?” Caleb asks. It’s a question, but I know there can only be one right answer this time.

  “Yes,” I say. And so I do. In the dim glow of the lantern, I tell him every sordid, sad detail. I don’t spare my father or Callie or myself. My throat aches with the need to cry, but not a single tear falls. When I finish, I listen to Bishop’s breathing, hold his warm hand in my own, until I can look up without falling apart.

  “Jesus, Ivy,” Caleb says when all my words are used up. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know how,” I whisper. “At first, I wasn’t sure how close you were to Mark. And then, later, I was scared you’d make me leave if you knew the truth about my relationship with Bishop. I didn’t want to be alone again.”

  Caleb’s eyes hold a kind of pity that I don’t want to accept. But there’s warmth there, too, so I’ll have to find a way to live with it. Maybe from Caleb I can’t have one without the other. “Everyone from Westfall who ends up here has been given a second chance,” Caleb says. “Why did you think we wouldn’t give you one?”

  I don’t know how to make him understand. My whole life, I trusted my family without question. And in the end, they betrayed me. “I didn’t know whether I could trust you,” I say finally.

  “Do you think we can trust him?” Caleb asks, eyes shifting to Bishop.

  “Yes.” I don’t even have to think about it. “He’s not like me. He doesn’t lie.”

  Before Caleb can respond, Ash comes back in to the tent carrying a small bucket of water and some rags. “I got some medicine from Carol,” she says. “For the pain.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  Ash nods at me, but won’t quite meet my eyes. The medicine is a powder made from herbs, and Ash says if we can get Bishop to wash it down with some water, it should work. Caleb holds Bishop’s head up, slapping his uninjured cheek lightly. After a few seconds, Bishop moans low in his throat, one arm jerking upward to bat Caleb away. He doesn’t open his eyes, but just seeing him move is enough to send relief rocketing through me.

  I manage to get his jaw open enough for Ash to spoon in the medicine, and I pour some water into his mouth, making him cough and gag.

  “Do you think he actually swallowed any?” I ask.

  “Hard to know,” Caleb says. “But it’s the best we can do right now.”

  I take one of the rags Ash brought and dip it into the water. As gently as I can, I begin washing the dried blood off Bishop’s face. The tent is very quiet while I work; I can feel Caleb’s and Ash’s eyes on me, watching the way my fingers trace every line of Bishop’s face as I clean. But it doesn’t matter who is a witness. I can’t make myself stop touching him, reassuring myself that he’s here and he’s alive.

  “We’ll have to talk more in the morning,” Caleb says finally. “Once he’s awake.”

  “Okay,” I say, my gaze not leaving Bishop. “And I have to tell you some things about Mark. But not tonight.” I don’t have the energy to say anything more, don’t want to take my focus off Bishop.

  “I’m not going to like it, am I?” Caleb asks wearily.

  “No.” I wring out the rag, Bishop’s blood flowing over my fingers. I look at Caleb. “You’re not going to like it. It’s ugly.”

  Caleb’s face tightens. “Did he hurt you?”

  I think of my shoulder, still sore sometimes but mostly healed. The weight of Mark’s body pressing me into the dirt. The dead girl by the fence. And the little girl in Westfall. “Not as badly as he hurt other people.”

  Caleb only nods, his eyes hard. He puts a hand on Ash’s shoulder. “Come on. You can sleep in my tent tonight.”

  “She doesn’t have to leave.” I smile at Ash, or at least give it my best attempt. She doesn’t smile back.

  “It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll go with Caleb.”

  Once they’re gone, I finish washing the blood off Bishop’s face and neck. I can’t get his hair clean, but I run the damp rag through it anyway, push it back from his forehead. His face is pale, but the rest of him is more golden than the last time I saw him, his lips slightly chapped, his fingers rough with calluses he didn’t have before. He’s been out here for a while. But he still looks strong, even with a battered face.

  I know we’d both probably be more comfortable if I slept in Ash’s cot, but I can’t bear to leave him. I kick off my shoes and take off Bishop’s, too, and blow out the lantern. Then I climb over him as carefully as I can and stretch out in the small space between his body and the tent wall.

  It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust, moonlight spilling in through the thin material of the tent and illuminating Bishop’s face. I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t make sense of it. Was he put out? Did he follow me? I entwine my hand with his and push my face into the hollow of his neck and shoulder. He smells of blood and sweat and, as always, a faint hint of sunshine. If not for that, I might think I was dreaming. I wonder what it means that I’m glad he’s not awake, that I can have him next to me without having to actually face him. I match my breathing to his and let the rhythm lull me into sleep.

  I wake with my head on Bishop’s shoulder, my hand flat on his chest, right over his thrumming heart. It takes me a second to realize he’s awake as well, his fingers twining through the ends of my hair. My heart stops and then races. I don’t move, but my breathing must give me away.

  “Ivy.” The soft rush of air from his mouth slides across my temple. “I know you’re awake.” His voice is hoarse, deeper than I remember.

  After I was put out, in the few stolen
moments I allowed myself to imagine seeing him again, I pictured racing toward him, grabbing him and never letting go. But now that the moment is here, I am frozen. It seems impossible for us to go back to what we were, not with everything that’s come before. I gather my courage in both hands and lift myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. I want to say something, words that will explain my deceit or express my sorrow or beg his forgiveness, but one look in his steady green eyes, eyes I told myself I’d never see again, and everything inside me clenches, clamps down so that nothing can escape.

  He just stares at me, his gaze taking in every inch of my face, skimming over cheeks and lips and finally settling on my eyes. I drink him in the same way, wince at the raw cut on his cheek, the bruise blooming on his jaw. My hand hovers and falls away. I don’t know how to touch him anymore, not when he’s watching me.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask. It is the most unimportant thing I could possibly ask him and the only thing I can think of to say.

  “I’ve been better,” he says. “But I’ll live.”

  “They brought you here, after…” My voice trails off.

  “Friends of yours?” Bishop asks.

  I nod.

  “The one with the crossbow really knows how to pack a punch.” Bishop pushes his fingers lightly against his jaw. “Guess I should count myself lucky he didn’t just go ahead and skewer me.”

  The conversation is so mundane, so ridiculous given the circumstances, that it makes me want to weep or scream or laugh hysterically, every possible emotion rising rapidly to the surface. “What…” I duck my head, have to look away for a moment to gather myself. “What are you doing out here?”

  His fingers tighten in my hair, not pulling, just urging me to look at him again. I do. We study each other in the stillness. In some ways he seems more a stranger to me than he did when we were first married. He has to be angry, bitter, but I can’t see it in his face. Only that familiar, calm acceptance in his eyes.