Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  Joan didn’t want to let on. “Who’re you talking about?”

  One Who Sees scowled, shook her head, and mimicked Joan in a fake, high pitched voice, “Who’re you talking about?” Then she said, “Ah, you know who I mean, the Black Shirt with the yellow hair. The one that was here a month ago.”

  She noticed everything, Joan thought, but Joan continued the charade, “What makes you think—”

  “I didn’t get my name because I have two different-colored eyes, Lionheart.”

  Joan knew how she earned her moniker. Old Owl, the masterful storyteller, had recounted the tale to Joan:

  “The young girl, still sore from her wounds—from the wrongs done to her by the Walled Nation—had lived as the daughter of the old man for the passing of one spring, one summer, one fall, and one winter. Then it happened. It happened before the summer heat, a time when the days became longer and the afternoons warmer. It was on such a warm afternoon when the girl cleaned the blankets from the tent, shaking them in the air, and sending the dust flying. Through the dirt, floating in the sky around her, she spied certain trees and bushes, on a hill in the distance. This was nothing remarkable, for trees and bushes covered a great portion of the hill. But the girl noticed and then remembered, that these trees, these bushes, were new. They had never been there before. In truth, these were different. These held danger for the Children. The girl told her father, who told others.”

  It turned out not to be trees or bushes after all. Instead they were camouflage, consisting of large branches, cloth, and small bushes set up to hide a raiding party that had intended to attack the camp. Because of One Who Sees’s keen observation, the imminent attack was routed.

  Gazing at her, Joan knew of the woman’s knack to notice minutiae. And to see inside people, for Yellow Wolf was an appropriate name for Duncan.

  One Who Sees continued, “And I am a girl, or was once, anyway.”

  The women giggled.

  “Come on, Lionheart,” she egged her on.

  “It’s nothing. He—Yellow Wolf as you call him—and I knew each other. That’s all,” Joan admitted.

  “‘Knew each other’?” One Who Sees pressed for more.

  “We were friends, that’s all,” she responded.

  “A donor was a friend with a Black Shirt—a TEO?” One Who Sees was incredulous.

  Joan looked away. Once again, this was treading on her hidden place, the fenced-in reserve—her secrets.

  A voice in the distance made them both take notice, “Shima, Shima,” it wailed.

  It was Crackling Fire on horseback. One Who Sees stood up and waved to him.

  Riding up to them, he said, “Noshi thought I’d find you here. He says to come back. Someone’s there. A visitor.”

  27

  When the women approached their tent, they discovered Arrow Comes Back conversing with a man. Crackling Fire stood next to them.

  The man dressed smartly. Despite the heat and dirt of the camp, he wore a stylish brown coat, tie, vest, black pants, and shiny boots. He looked about forty years old. His hat was pushed back casually on his head. Brown-blond hair sneaked out beneath it, appearing somehow messy but neat at the same time. Clean-shaven, except for a thin mustache, the man was very tan, which accentuated his sparkling eyes—a dark, grayish-blue, the color of the sky shortly after sunset but before the blackness of night. His general air and demeanor were carefree. Around his waist hung two six-shooters. An antique, silver sword dangled from his belt, with the remains of an old, weather-worn, blue tassel swinging from its handle.

  The man animatedly talked, as Arrow Comes Back nodded his head. They turned to the approaching women.

  “It’s He Smiles,” One Who Sees said with fondness in her voice.

  “Mrs. One Who Sees,” He Smiles said. “Kind of you to remember me, ma’am.”

  He swooped his hat off his head, took her hand, and kissed it.

  “And this must be the indefatigable Lionheart.”

  Joan was taken aback. He took her hand and kissed it as well.

  “Miss Lionheart, a pleasure. Those photographs of you don’t do you justice. I am Archibald Bash, at your service.” He bowed. “Although I do also answer to the name Mrs. One Who Sees gave me.”

  He smiled kindly at Joan. In his eyes flashed comprehension and compassion, as if he understood her. He spoke with a slow drawl, unhurried and relaxed. Similar to the way Garth spoke but without the hard twang. He didn’t rush his words. They spilled out of his mouth leisurely and slowly—hanging in the hot summer air, almost tantalizing, like a gentle rising sun over a hill, begging one to stay and watch it.

  One Who Sees explained, “He Smiles is a...,” she paused, searching for the right words.

  He finished her thought, “A gentleman of leisure. And in my spare time, I have been known to partake in a little business here and there. I’m also interested in—”

  “Girls,” Crackling Fire smiled mischievously.

  “Well, son, I have been seen in the company of a pretty lady or two in my life,” Bash admitted with a smile, winking at Crackling Fire and mussing his hair.

  Not one for idle conversation, Arrow Comes Back interrupted, “He brought someone here.”

  Bash stepped back. Coming from behind the tent, Reck emerged.

  In less than a second, Reck and Joan rushed into each other’s arms, hugging and not wanting to let go. Her face buried in his chest; she held back tears. Finally, they pulled apart.

  “Joanie,” he uttered affectionately.

  “How…?” Joan asked.

  She impulsively wrapped her arms around him again.

  “Jack, your trainer, arranged it. Smuggled us out.”

  “Us?” she looked around.

  “Well, Kaleb didn’t make it to my truck—didn’t make the truck I was on. But Jack said he’d be following me.”

  “Oh, Kaleb’s coming also? I can’t believe it. This’s too good,” she hugged him again.

  “The three musketeers,” they said in unison, holding hands.

  Joan noticed everyone was watching them.

  “Oh, Reck, this is my…” The first word that came to her lips was family. But she had no family. Instead she said, “These are One Who Sees and Arrow Comes Back. He helped me in the wilderness—saved me.”

  Suddenly a loud voice interrupted them, “Archibald Bash, is that you? I heard you were in the camp.”

  They turned to the voice. A long-legged woman about thirty-five-years old, maybe a trader or hunter, stood there. Dressed in pants and a black hat, she had a gun at her hip and another slung over her shoulder. Her long, black, curly hair seemed to flow directly from the hat upon her head. Her countenance glistened a natural, light-tan color and exhibited confidence and boldness. She spoke with a graceful and fluid accent, arising from the back of her throat. When she said the word “Archibald,” she rolled the “r,” making the name fall growling off her tongue.

  “Isabel, my dear,” Bash answered, bowing his head. “It’s been too long,” he smiled genuinely happy.

  “Since Angel City. And don’t flash your smile at me, you rascal! You know you owe me.” The “r” still rolled with the word “rascal,” but this time it was softer, more like the purr of a cat.

  Bash raised his eyebrows. “Well, my dear, I have some good news—”

  “And some bad news,” Isabel finished, flashing a wide grin. “You haven’t changed.”

  Bash chuckled, “And the good news is I always repay my debts.”

  He turned to the others.

  “Excuse me.” Turning back to Isabel, he asked, “Do you have a tent around here—somewhere we can…talk?”

  As they walked off, Bash held out his arm to her, saying, “Senorita.” She took it.

  Reck and Joan sat, appropriately, under Talking Tree. He filled her in on all that transpired since her escape: the poster, the name Lionheart, the minor rebellion in the ghetto.

  “So, I have Zenobia to thank for that name,” Joan shoo
k her head.

  He told Joan about his flight from the Alliance. He spent most of the time in the back of the tractor-trailer, quite comfortably, he explained. He had blankets, plenty of food, water, and reading material. At the various checkpoints along the way, the army never even looked in the truck. Shortly before they reached the last outpost, the truck dropped him off at a designated spot, where Bash met him. Then he and Bash spent the next couple weeks riding to the camp.

  “The wilderness is beautiful,” he murmured dreamily. Joan realized he was excited and proud of his adventure. “It’s nothing like what we learned in school. We slept under the stars. I got a knack for riding horses and even tried hunting. Bash showed me how to use his gun. Didn’t get anything, though. I’m going to have to learn about shooting and all. Jack told me this Lucas guy is big in the Resistance—”

  “Resistance?” Joan questioned.

  “Yeah, he’s fighting the Alliance. We’re going to join up with him.”

  “Wait. What? Join up?” Joan interrupted.

  “Yeah, with the Resistance. Fight the Alliance.”

  “Fight?” Joan exclaimed. She had barely escaped the Alliance. She had only just begun to break its hold on her.

  Reck stroked her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Like I said, I’m learning how to shoot and all. Bash also taught me how to fish and how to navigate by the stars.”

  Joan held back in telling him her “adventure,” leaving out the part about Garth and Hazel. The rest of it she related in the most basic way, devoid of the details.

  Over the next few weeks, Joan and Reck spent much of their time together. Reck stayed in the outer circle of the camp, in Bash’s tent. The time they spent with one another was a tonic for Joan—a stimulant—and she drank it in.

  Joan also spent time with Bash and Isabel. Isabel took to calling Joan “hija,” a pet name she said meant little sister or girl friend. Isabel San Luis was a trader—not of goods or supplies, but of information and news. She had trekked across the entire continent—including the Alliance—gathering information. She came from a country in the southern part of the continent. Before the Impact her family had owned one of the nation’s largest media and information companies, its major interests being newspapers. She laughed that gathering and reporting the news was in her blood. Although she travelled for her profession, she wasn’t a loner—she was just independent.

  As for Bash, something about him instantly put Joan at ease. He was certainly amiable. “A charming rogue,” One Who Sees called him. He was generous to a fault with money—what little he had—but not with his emotions. Although he captivated almost everyone with his charisma, he never let anyone get close to him. One Who Sees was the only one who could peer inside him. She was the only one who recognized the noble, gentle side of the affirmed wanderer.

  Archibald Bash was no stranger to heartache. Both his parents died when he was fifteen, leaving him and his little sister alone. The children made their home on a beach that bordered a large gulf. They hunted daily along the edge and in the shallow, warm waters for artifacts and antiques. After the waters from the great flood receded, the area offered a treasure trove of items. He and his sister enjoyed trekking through old, abandoned homes, gathering things. Every week they traveled to markets, in the nearest towns that were in the process of rebuilding, to sell the items.

  One day the kids had been trudging through a sparse forest, which opened up to a group of broken, destroyed buildings: an old city. They walked through the deserted streets, playing as if they strolled through a bustling city, full of people.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the young Bash uttered to no one, as he stepped out of an imaginary person’s way.

  “Oh, I’d like to eat at that restaurant!” his sister joked, as they stood outside a building that was once a dining establishment. One piece of a broken window remained, painted with a picture of a cup of coffee.

  Most all the buildings lacked roofs and many were missing walls. Then they turned a corner and discovered an immense library—a huge building still standing in its entirety. The library was a massive, square structure with granite columns in the front and a stone pediment with carvings over the main door. Surprisingly, even the windows remained intact. They broke in through one window and discovered books from floor to ceiling and scattered over the floor beneath a thin layer of sand and dirt. Many had been water damaged, of course, but they had dried out and were in readable condition. Bash and his sister moved into the edifice, enjoying the books, the warmth, and the shelter the library offered.

  In one room of the building, his sister found an old sword, still in a display case, the glass above it broken. The sword rested on a bed of dark blue velvet, but it was water damaged and covered in rust. Hiding it from Bash, the girl spent any time she had alone removing the rust and polishing it, until it shone. Out of blue yarn gathered from an old clothing shop, she fashioned a tassel about the size of her fist and fastened it to the saber’s handle. She presented the gift to Bash on his birthday. Bash had not yet experienced his teenage-growth spurt, and when he tied the sword to his belt, it dragged on the ground. Even so he wore it every day.

  “You’re my knight,” his sister flattered him.

  Bash had bowed to her saying, proudly, “My lady.”

  Occasionally, strangers discovered the old city and the library. He and his sister would hide in the attic, while the unknown and unwelcome visitors rummaged around the books for a while. But soon they’d leave, often with an armful of books.

  They lived in the library for a year, using it as a base for their treasure hunts and their weekly trips into the nearby cities and towns. But they rarely sold any books. Books held a special place in their hearts. The library was their secret.

  On one of their forays to the seaside to gather treasures, his sister offered that they should split up to cover more area. Typically, they stayed together during their quests. She was only thirteen, after all. But Bash wanted to move quickly, and he could do that better without her. So, against his better judgment, he acquiesced to her request.

  That day they were in a desolate part of the beach. Bash traveled farther than planned and was late returning to the meeting place. His sister did not return at all; she was nowhere to be seen. Running along the beach, he eventually found her sack, abandoned on the dirt near the water. The sand all over the area lay undisturbed. No footprints led away from the water’s edge or from the sack. Frantically, he searched in vain for her, running along the water each way, listening for any cries and looking for her out in the waves. For two weeks he camped at that spot. He knew in this area rogue waves occasionally rolled onto the shore. Or perhaps a riptide caught her. Maybe she saw something in the shallows, waded out, and was swept out to sea. And he wasn’t there to save her.

  After that loss and the accompanying guilt, Bash turned into a wanderer, never putting down roots. He never let anyone get close to him. He made his home on the ocean for a few years, working on a fishing boat in the great gulf. Then he turned his talents to the land—to trading, smuggling, and gambling—all of which also require a lot of traveling. No opportunity to settle down.

  Bash remembered his sister in the books, which he kept with him.

  The Governor stood admiring a large wall map, hanging in his office.

  “What’s the status on 23?” he asked Biggs. “We were going to arrest her friends and send them out west? It’s been what…a month since I gave the order?”

  “Yes, sir. We did arrest them—uh, one of her friends, at least. And we’ve already sent him on his way out west. Still looking for the other. I’m sure they’ll pick him up.” Quickly changing the subject, Biggs added, “I did some research on 23. Found something interesting. It might be useful, sir—more useful than her friends.”

  Biggs waved a manila folder in the air. Gates strolled over to where Biggs stood at a large table, along with other aides busy at work. “Let’s see.”

  “You know her m
other was arrested and her father died during her escape?”

  “Don’t recall. Why?” Gates didn’t care about the girl’s family. “Is this important?”

  “That was her whole family. Most importantly, she informed on her mother.”

  Gates grew impatient. “People inform on family members all the time.”

  “Yes, well, that fact may be more important when you see this.” He opened the folder and pointed, “Here. This part, Governor.”

  Gates read it. He closed the file pensively and slowly.

  Biggs waited without complaint. After a while, he stammered, “Sir, shall I relay this information to the TEO’s in the field? It may be useful for them—”

  “No.”

  “May I inquire why not, sir? This,” he motioned to the file, “would most likely get her to give herself up.”

  “Chess.”

  “Sir?” the aide didn’t understand.

  “Violet, do you play chess?” He glanced over at the girl. She was the only good thing that came out of that day at the Fitness Center, he thought. It was too bad about her boyfriend, for Gates hated to waste donors’ lives. But Violet had been especially obedient—and eager to please—since then. She obviously thinks that boy is still alive.

  Looking at the ground, she shook her head. “No, sir.”

  Gates turned back to Biggs.

  “Patience. Patience is the friend of any good strategist. In chess you always think a few moves ahead. Let’s see how the TEOs do, using her friends.” He tapped the folder. “We’ll just keep this information under wraps for now. You play poker, don’t you, Biggs? This’ll be an ace up our sleeve.”

  28

  Joan! Joan!” Reck ran up frantically to Joan’s tent. Joan had been helping the kids get ready for bed. “Hurry, a fight. It’s Bash.”

  Crackling Fire jumped up, but One Who Sees said firmly, “You stay here.” Then to Old Owl, “Watch them please, Noshi.”

  The women and Reck rushed to the outer reaches of the camp. The men had marked off a large square in the dirt, while Bash prepared to fight another man. People placed bets. Bash rolled up his shirtsleeves as Joan and One Who Sees approached.