Chosen (Dark Powers Rising Book 3)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  The Overseer rides to the head of the cart, gives a sharp flick of his hand, signalling the driver to move and tyres crunch against the tarmac as we begin to roll forward. I turn to take one last look at the village, grey and half-hidden in the fog. Movement on the lawn catches my eye and I look intently at the figures on the grass, desperate to watch the scene before the fog claims it. Bettrice walks out of the School House, stands next to the Watcher and hands him a cup. He turns to her, smiles, lifts it to his lips and drinks. I hold my breath. He swallows and a frown creases his brow as he looks down into the cup. The Wife smiles and turns to go back inside and disappears into the white mist.

  Chapter Three

  The hours drag on as we’re carried out across the moors, passing through villages where the people stand and stare but look away as we lurch past. We roll along endless lanes, narrow grey lines edged with the green of wilting grass and the stiff, browning stems of dying cow parsley. The colour of the day is disappearing and the trees are stark yet beautiful against the glowing backlight of the sinking November sun: black trunks and bare black branches hung with gold. With the setting sun comes the cold and a mist, burnt off by the warmth of the sun, rolls low again across the fields. A fine white smoke swirls about the horses as they breathe out heavily and strain up the hill. At the peak, the Primitive capital comes into view. It’s smaller than I thought it would be; an old market town of grey and red blocks, slate roofs spiked here and there with church spires and winding, sloping lanes.

  The horses pull us further down the hill towards the town. A large stone block stands on the verge, its base rising out of thickening fog. Screwed into its flat face is an elaborate green plaque edged with gold. It is pitted with age but I can still make out large, gold painted metal letters, ‘Welcome to Marlock. Picturesque Spa Town’. I have no idea what ‘Spa Town’ means but beneath, scratched through the paint down to the metal, are words I understand completely and that twist in my gut, ‘Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect’. The sign is old and must have sat here since before the wars. The scratched letters are new in comparison yet rust is already eating at their edges.

  We cross a bridge of stone arches to a wider lane hemmed in by lines of grey blocked houses. Many of their windows are dark, though light shines in some, bright like at the Watcher’s house. I’ve thought about him often during the long journey, wondering how long it took the poison to get him. That he suffered as it hit him sits badly with me, but worse is the fright that he may not be dead, that I made a mistake and there was no poison in the cup Bettrice had given him as we left the village. The worry grabs at my heart and a pain spreads across the pit of my belly so I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. There’s far worse to come today and I need to focus on keeping myself together for whatever lays ahead.

  The jolting of cobbles beneath the wheels knocks me from my inner worries and I look up to see that we’ve reached what looks like the town centre. The road opens to a wide square with larger, grander houses. In the middle is a circle of cobbles surrounded by low benches, at the centre a platform ringed by steps. We pull up outside a building of grey blocks, darker than the others, a huge arched doorway at its centre. Remnants of sky blue paint still cling to its wooden doors. A guard lifts a ring of coiled metal and knocks hard. Minutes pass and the door swings open, our cart is pulled through the archway and out onto a rectangular courtyard of crunching gravel. We lurch to a stop, a queasy sickness rolls in my belly and the vomit of hunger rises in my throat as guards move in to unlock us from the flat boards of the cart.

  “Let her go!” Ish shouts as a guard pulls Ria to her feet.

  He yanks angrily at the chain still locking him down; it only scratches at his wrists.

  “It’s ok Ish,” she replies, trying to soothe him, “I’m ok.”

  She’s lying of course, just trying to protect him from her pain, something we’ve all got into the habit of doing.

  We are herded like cattle across to the far side of the courtyard and through a heavy wooden door. Inside is as bleak as the exterior—cold, and what light does get through the unwashed windows throws a meagre dinge throughout the bare hallway. The whitewashed walls have lost any brilliance they once had and instead seem to blend into the greyness of the stone floor.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us?” Jey asks.

  It’s the first time I’ve been able to talk to her since we were shackled to the cart and there’s real terror in her voice.

  “I don’t know Jey, but we have to be strong. Promise me you’ll be strong—whatever happens.”

  The tears in her eyes catch at my heart and I turn my head so that I don’t see them spill down onto her cheeks. I’ve got to stay strong now, for us both.

  “Yes, Merry. I’ll be strong,” she replies, but I can tell she doesn’t believe her own words.

  “Listen!” I insist, desperate. “I’m going to get us out of here. Do you understand?” She’s silent. “Do you?” I ask again. I have no idea how, but she has to know that I will do whatever it takes to make her safe.

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” she replies quietly, unconvinced.

  The guards divide us into two groups, boys in one, girls in the other and order us to sit on long wooden benches at either side of the room. Then we wait. Ria sits rigid next to me, hands clasped together tight. I look across to the boys. They sit slumped, hopeless, as though life has been drained from them.

  “What’s wrong with these ones?” a wasp-waisted stick of a woman with a lined face and beak-like nose snaps at one of the guards. “They look like they’re waiting for death.”

  “They know about the market,” he replies.

  “Tut! As if my job isn’t hard enough already,” she spits, casting her eyes across us, a bunch of keys jangling at her tight waist, “and a skinny lot too,” she says, prodding at Jennet with her index finger, the strings of her grey bonnet bouncing on her white ruff as she leans down to peer at her. “Where have they come from?”

  “These are from Bale. Watcher Craslow’s village.”

  “Tut!” she spits again. “Look at that one—scarred right across her face. Spoiled goods. What am I supposed to do with that!”

  I feel the burn of humiliation instantly.

  “A sorry lot and no mistake. And they stink!” she says, pegging her fingers to her nose, disgust curling onto her upper lip. “Stand up girls!” she orders. “It’s time we washed the stench off you,” she orders. “Bring them in to me,” she barks as we stand then walks away and out through a door at the back of the hallway.

  I turn and give one last despairing look at Ish. He has gone; taken with the other boys through a different door.

  The room is another gloomy space, smeared windows, bare walls and rows of metal chairs with brown or blue plastic seats. We’re ordered to sit. Two women stand behind us, drab in their earth coloured skirts and over-washed cotton blouses, blocking the door to the hallway. Black lines across their cheeks mark them out as property of the Primitives. The hag stands at the front of the room, book open, pen in hand and calls out the register as though we’re back in Assembly; Jey Beswice, Meriall Beswice, Jennet Gresham, Ria Haslow, Judythe Spires, Emett Talbot. We’re all ticked off and accounted for apart from Emett.

  “Where’s Emett Talbot? I have her on my list,” she demands.

  “She’s sick. The Overseer said she didn’t have to come,” Jennet answers.

  “Tsk!” and she mutters again about the Watcher. “We’ll do this alphabetically. Jey Beswice, you’re first.”

  Jey, stands, falters and looks at me, the fear obvious in her eyes.

  “Come on girl. I haven’t got all day,” the witch says impatiently. “You’re just going for a bath—get the stench of that village off you,” she cajoles putting as much insult into ‘that village’ as she can. “Meriall Beswice, Jennet Gresham. You girls come too. The others can wait their turn.” She prods Jennet with her bony finger, “Forward!” We move as one towards the door.


  The water of the bath is warm, but any chance I might have had to enjoy it soaking into my sore body, or soothe my shattered nerves, is blown away by the woman kneeling next to the bath, a long-handled brush in hand.

  “How’d you get so filthy?” she asks looking at the grime stuck under my fingernails. “Don’t they have soap where you come from?”

  “Not much,” I reply, “only what we can scavenge.”

  “Ahh,” she says as if that explains everything. “You’re an Outlier. Must be tough out there, given how skinny you are.”

  “Um, yes, I guess so,” is all I can reply.

  “Been in the wars have you?”

  I don’t understand her question.

  “Your face. The scar—looks pretty fresh,” she adds in clarification.

  “Yes,” I reply softly, touching my fingers to the scarred tissue of my cheek. “Yes, I know it looks bad.”

  Despite the soothing warmth of the bath, fear is reeling in my gut, and I’m thankful she seems to have run out of conversation, and has instead turned to scrubbing at my back and arms with the brush, I concentrate on getting the dirt out from under my fingernails. My hands aren’t pretty; veins carrying my life blood snake across the back and my wrist bones are angular, jutting. My nails never grow long and elegant like Jey’s, but I like to keep them clean. She washes my hair, digging her nails into my scalp, massaging the soap through every strand, rinsing out the stink of sweat and fear that clings to me. The soap scum floats on the surface as the water turns an unappealing grey.

  “Time to get out. Look at how dirty that water is?” she exclaims, holding up a towel.

  I step out onto a coarse square of looped cotton.

  “Better in the bath than on you though, ey?” she adds, rubbing at my skin with the rough fabric of the towel. “Stand still, let me do your hair,” she orders.

  “I’m not a child,” I say. “I can dry myself,” I add, on the verge of a tantrum.

  “I’m sure you can, but I’ve got a lot of you to get cleaned this morning so its quicker if I do it myself,” she rubs my long hair and skin vigorously until I am finally dry and stand naked waiting for her next instruction.

  “Bet that feels better, doesn’t it love,” she states, smiling at me from across the room with a fold of white fabric in her arms.

  “Yes, yes it does. Thank you.”

  The brush and the roughness of the towel across my body have left my skin glowing pink and refreshed.

  “I make these myself,” she says, as she shakes out the fabric to reveal a voluminous cotton shift. “Mind you, once it’s over, I’ll have it back. Cotton’s hard to find these days.” This more to herself than to me.

  “What do you mean ‘once it’s over’?” I ask, dread stirring again in my belly.

  “It’s nothing to worry about really and if you lie real still it won’t hurt—only takes a moment.”

  “What does?” I ask, though I think I already know the answer.

  “Well, they need to check that you’re intact.”

  “Intact?” I ask with a frown, my belly clenching.

  “Yes, you know, that you’re pure, that you’re a virgin,” she explains, slipping the shift over my head.

  I push my arms through the sleeves and it sits on my shoulders billowing out around me.

  “Oh,” I add quietly. “And what if I’m not?”

  She sucks in her breath and looks to me sharply.

  “Well, if you’re not, then they won’t be happy,” she says curtly and strides to the door. “Come this way.”

  Chapter Four

  The witch is back and standing in front of a cloth divider holding her book.

  “Jey Beswice,” she calls out.

  Jey, fresh from the bath, auburn hair braided prettily across her head, squeezes my arm tight and doesn’t move.

  “Jey Beswice!” the witch demands, annoyed.

  Jey lets go of my arm and walks to her, the white gown flapping about her legs, and looks back with fear before disappearing behind the divider.

  A sob from Jey.

  “Be quiet girl.”

  Seconds pass then, “Pure.”

  Jey walks back to me, her shoulders rounded, cheeks smudged red, head low. I cannot bear to see her like this and wrap my arms around her. She clings to me.

  “Oh, Meriall. What are they going to do with us?” she sobs.

  “Shh. It’ll be ok,” I lie.

  “Meriall Beswice.”

  My turn behind the curtain.

  My heart is pounding fast as I walk to her and I bite my lip to push down the fear. Jey got through it, so can I. Behind the divider is another woman and a curious bed. Narrow and higher than my bed at home, it is laid with white sheets and crossed underneath with metal rods. It sits on wheels. Stranger still, the witch pumps a pedal with her foot and it lowers.

  “Get on girl. We haven’t got all day,” she snaps. “Lie down.”

  Her foot pumps again and the bed is raised up, waist height. I lay rigid, dreading the next few moments.

  “Get on with it Felicity,” the crone snaps.

  The woman standing, washing her hands in a bowl near the top of the bed, must be Felicity because she shakes the water off her hands and steps forward, her long brown skirt ruffling with her steps. The black lines of ownership pull taut across her cheeks as she smiles. “Now, this won’t hurt. Just part your legs for me,” she says gently.

  The tenderness in her voice is too much and tears begin to well in my eyes.

  “Now, now,” she soothes, stroking my brow, her fingers cold yet smooth, “just close your eyes and relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “Just get on with it!” the witch snaps in irritation. If she ever had any kindness in her heart it fled long ago.

  I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

  “I’m sorry Meriall,” Felicity apologises with a look of concern. “Not pure.”

  “Tsk! Stupid girl,” the witch says with malice and records the evidence in her book. “Go back to your seat.”

  I jump off the bed with relief as Felicity turns again to the bowl of water to wash her soiled hands.

  “Jennet Gresham,” the witch barks out behind me.

  Midday comes and we are together again, scrubbed pink, wet hair combed through and hanging free, white cotton shifts loose about our shoulders. My belly growls with hunger. Giving us food doesn’t seem to be on the list of preparations. Felicity walks in carrying an armful of what look like leather straps, the witch is behind her.

  I whisper to Jey, “The Beak’s back!” and she lets out a quiet snort.

  With the meanness that oozes out of every pore, and her overlong and pointed nose, I can’t think of this woman now other than as a witch or some horribly nasty, pecking bird.

  “Line up girls,” she snaps.

  We line up as instructed and Felicity works her way down the line placing a tight belt at each of our waists.

  “What’s this for?” I brave, as Felicity pulls on mine, tightening it as far as she can.

  “It pulls in the shift—so they can see the outline of your body—how nice you are,” she says lightly, as though we are dressing for a party.

  “Who?” I ask as she stands and fluffs about with the shift, shuffling the fabric, smoothing the gathers, ignoring my question. “So who can see my body?” I persist, dread again surging through me.

  “Erm …” She grasps for an answer. “Your new employers,” she says evasively, shifting her eyes from mine and moving along the line, belts held in the crook of her arm.

  “Employers!” I exclaim. “Is that what you’re calling them,” I add scathingly.

  She turns back and stands before me.

  “Now listen here! I’ve been as kind as I can to you, but you’ve got to pipe down,” she instructs. “You’ll get the girls all upset if you don’t and do you know what will happen then?” she asks, querulous.

  “No, of course not. I don’t know anythi
ng about what is going to happen to me do I, because we’ve all been fed a lie for years and years,” I reply, the frustration bubbling out of me.

  “Shh. There’s nothing you can do about it now, is there!” she hisses, pulling her arm and the belts to her chest, her fist clenched. “I know what they’ll do to you if you keep on like this so I’m telling you, keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told,” she warns. “I’m trying to help you,” she continues in a calmer, pleading tone, her eyes locked meaningfully onto mine, “and them,” she adds, with a flick of her head towards the others.

  I look along the line, at the scared faces of these precious girls, and back down. The Beak watches us tight lipped, her eyes a fixed scowl.

  “They’re ready Mother,” Felicity calls to the Beak.

  Mother! That they call this heartless, twisted monster Mother is shocking to me and I snort with derision. She snaps her head up and looks straight at me.

  “You find that funny do you, Scarface?”

  I’m silent and look down to my feet.

  “Let’s see who’s laughing later shall we?” she adds snearing, and opens the door. “This way girls. It’s time.”

  We’re led down the stairs barefoot and shivering, our light cotton shifts the only protection from the November cold. Through the smeared windows, I can see figures bunched together, moving forward towards the main doors ahead of us where they enter and disappear out of view. The Beak turns right and we are taken into a small room with another door that must lead to yet more rooms. Behind us Felicity locks the door.

  “Scared we’ll run?” I ask, frustration rising in me again.

  It’s never very far from the surface of my emotions, but now it is almost impossible to keep down.