Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  She shook her head. “I think about how many names have disappeared from ghetto apartment buildings over the last few months—how many people dragged into the third floor of the medical center. I think of how close I was to being taken to the third floor. Why did I survive and get away?” She admitted in despair, “I never even tried to help any donor. I only cared about myself. My goal was to buy a citizenship for me and my dad.”

  And the memories of her betrayal of her mother, her father’s death and that of Kaleb haunted her.

  Bash said, “Those horrors don’t always leave us, Joan. They’re like ghosts, like wraiths, following us. Sometimes, to be free of them, we have to face them. Otherwise they’ll consume us. How we handle these ghosts will follow us the rest of our lives.”

  Joan looked up at the clouds and said thoughtfully, “You think I have to destroy them—these ghosts?”

  “Destroy them? Not sure. The important thing is facing them. We can’t live life by walking along the edge. If we are true to ourselves, then by our presence we can free others. I said something to you once about putting walls and fences around ourselves. Well, we can peek over the fence, and we can sit on top of it. But in order to live, we have to climb over.”

  Contemplating, she questioned, “You speaking from experience?”

  He flashed a grin at her and turned serious, “Perhaps I have faced some ghosts. Climbed over the fence.”

  She shook her head. “General Lucas…I hate it when he calls me Lionheart. It’s different than when One Who Sees or any of the Children say it…” Her voice trailed off.

  Pursing his lips, he said philosophically, “A rose by any other name….”

  She raised her eyebrows, questioning.

  His gray-blue eyes sparkled mischievously in the sunlight, tempered by a glow of wisdom on his gentle face. He wrapped an arm around her. “I mean, it doesn’t matter what Lucas calls you. Or Nox. Or anyone back in the Alliance. You are who you are in here.” He tapped lightly over her heart.

  “I’m not a hero. You know that.” She rolled her eyes in resignation. “Everyone knows that now. I mean, everyone who was in that canyon. But I don’t think Reck’s told anyone. General Lucas and the others think I’m some sort of a hero…”

  He gently turned her chin up to him, “No one makes a decision to be a hero. You’re a young woman, Joan—a young woman who’s been through more than anyone ever should, who’s been pressured, had burdens placed on her.” He spoke in his usual protracted and unhurried manner—increasing the tension for Joan—persuading her, encouraging her, and heightening her anticipation. “Don’t do anything for Lucas or for the Resistance. Do what you have to do for you, then it all flows from there. There may be time when something—our instinct—tells us to do something, something that defies reason and logic. I think you have to listen to that. Ignore the reason, ignore the logic.”

  He paused for a moment, and the words—the import—came from straight his heart. “And maybe when something bad happens to us—or to someone close to us—it can result in us doing something good for others. Doing something good that we wouldn’t have done otherwise.”

  She leaned in to him, resting on him, and they sat peacefully for a while. Pondering her dilemma, she realized the difficulty involved in having to make a decision. All her life she had been spared that thorny task. The System had dictated to her. She was told what to believe and what to think for her whole life. The System had arranged her life for her.

  Bash nudged her back and pointed at the lion figurine hanging around her neck. He wondered aloud, “What’s the lion reaching for, do you suppose?”

  Joan fingered the small mountain lion. What was it reaching for? It seemed a lifetime ago when Arrow Comes Back carved it for her, but it was only about four months. Joan pondered the passage of time. She escaped the Alliance almost six months ago. So much happened to her since then. Things changed for her—for the better. But not for the donors still in the ghetto. Nothing had changed for them.

  Colonel Spiller interrupted them.

  “Just looking for you, Lionheart. The General wants to see you.”

  She rolled her eyes but stood up. Then he stepped back to give her way and waved his hand toward Lucas’s tent. She started walking with the Colonel, and Bash followed. He slid his arm over her shoulder, while they walked.

  Lucas was admiring a Nomad’s rifle, smiling and joking. An aide motioned to him, and he turned as Joan approached. Impatience showed on his face. He’d been waiting here for almost a month.

  He didn’t waste time. “Lionheart, we need to talk. I—”

  Two men abruptly approached, and one leaned in to Lucas’s ear, whispering. Joan recognized him as one of the colonels. Lucas held up his hand to Joan and turned to face the men, instead.

  Standing with them was a man who looked like he had been through bad times. His clothes appeared dirty and torn. He had dirt caked on his hands and cheeks. A scraggily beard, evidence he had not shaven in quite a while, covered his face. His skin, though tanned, seemed sickly and pale.

  Joan stared at him. She recognized his look. His sunken and hollow cheeks reflected a horror he must have been through. He was exhausted and certainly had not drunk much water or eaten a hot meal in a while. She knew what that was like. She must have looked like him when Arrow Comes Back had found her—worn out and beaten. Not totally beaten, Joan thought. She had come through. But with help—she had help. She wondered where he was from and how far he had traveled.

  Lucas addressed the man, “I understand you’re looking for me—”

  “Yeah, I’m 51—” the man paused. He took a breath. “Name’s…” another pause. Finally, “Owen.”

  Not used to being interrupted, Lucas glared and stuck his chin high in the air. Owen’s voice sounded rough, with raspy cracks. The vulnerable man tried to say more, but his mouth was so parched he couldn’t.

  Lucas set his lips tight and ordered, “Bring 51—this man—water. Here, sit…” He forced himself to add, “Owen.”

  After he had drunk his fill, the man coughed, “Escaped from the Alliance. Seven of us donors. Only five left. We came to fight with the Lionheart. Where is the Lionheart? Is she here?”

  Lucas turned to face Joan and raised his eyebrows. Joan clutched Bash’s hand, as she scrutinized Owen. She knew what she would do. She would return to the Alliance.

  38

  Spiller and a couple of other men approached Joan, where she sat on the ground cleaning the rifle. One of the men held a camera, and one held equipment.

  “Lionheart,” Spiller said, “the General—”

  “Wants to see me. I know. I know,” she interrupted, with a smile. “I’ll go.”

  Spiller grinned, too. “No. He’d like to get a picture of you and get it out there now. Let everyone know you’re still alive. Give everyone hope. We’re going to have a man ride back today to Seaton with the film.”

  “It’ll be quick. Just wear what you have on. You look good,” he commanded, and he motioned for Joan to stand up and to the photographer to get ready. The man set up his camera. Sighing, Joan obliged.

  The photographer remarked, “Yeah, the gun, too. Hold that up.”

  Spiller agreed, “And that hat you have. It’s good. Unique. It will give you a little cachet, a mark of distinction.”

  Twenty minutes later Joan was still posing for the camera. She stood in front of a batch of trees. The leaves were beginning to change colors, from green to gold and dark crimson. She stood straight, holding the rifle, her tattoo showing, her lion figurine dangling over her heart, with her hat jauntily cocked on her head.

  “OK, enough already!” she exclaimed, slipping the rifle over her shoulder and walking away. Spiller raised his eyebrows as she stomped off.

  Since she made the decision to join the Resistance, her strength of will had returned. She spent much of her time exercising. But she often ventured into the forest to contemplate—surrounded by the trees. The System had forced her on
a road. Now, after hunger, fear and constant anxiety, she was a different girl. She had set her feet upon a new road.

  That morning she hiked alone to Glimmerglass. The still waters had glistened like a crystal—sparkling in the morning mist. It looked untouched—as if waiting for her. In silence and solitude, she sat at its edge. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, gazing at the calm water. After a while, she wasn’t even sure if she was there. She dove in. The swim invigorated her.

  Let Lucas and Spiller call her Lionheart—she didn’t care.

  “I’m so full,” Old Owl uttered, leaning back during dinner.

  “Glad you liked it,” One Who Sees gloated.

  “Ah, I didn’t say I liked it,” he grumbled.

  Quiet Snowfall, snuggled in her father’s lap, playfully mimicked her grandfather, “Ah, I didn’t say I liked it. I hated it. I’m a grumpy old man…” She stopped when her father tickled her.

  “I’ll miss your dinners,” Joan sighed to One Who Sees. Joan and the Resistance intended to leave for Seaton the next day.

  As she ate, she didn’t say much. She listened to Old Owl’s complaints, One Who Sees’s gossip, the children’s laughter, and Arrow Comes Back’s respectful reticence.

  Later that night, the thought of leaving the next day kept her awake. She crept out of the tent to get some fresh air and think. Old Owl bumped into her.

  “Thought you were inside,” Joan uttered, surprised.

  “Ah, old age,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I have to get up a lot in the night.”

  Joan didn’t respond.

  “Lionheart, something troubles you. Troubles your soul?”

  She sighed, “I was just…I don’t know. Just thinking about tomorrow. About joining the Resistance.”

  “You think of possible death?”

  She shook her head and told him forthrightly, “No, not that. I understand there are worse things than dying.” She thought of how she had almost died back in the Alliance, without ever really living.

  “Yes,” he nodded in his understanding way.

  “I guess what worries me…well, what good can I do in this fight?”

  “The Walled Nation still hunts you. So they must fear you.”

  “You don’t know the Allia—the Walled Nation. It’s strong. So very strong.” She shook her head in disbelief, “I’m scared the donors expect too much from me. Lucas expects too much from me. I’m not sure it’s in me.”

  They sat quietly for a moment. A slight breeze in the warm night air caused Joan to shiver. An owl in the distance let out a delicate, melodic hoot.

  “The stars are bright tonight,” he commented.

  He cleared his throat. “When the Great Star fell, it gravely injured the Earth, the Children and all the people. But in hurting the Earth, it destroyed itself. The Fallen Star fell in fire and was smashed to pieces. Its shards were carried by the wind across the lands. The Children believe the only way to make the Earth whole again—to heal it and to rebuild it—is to collect those pieces. There are people who collect them—people who heal the Earth.”

  He paused, “Lionheart, you are one of those people. Don’t be afraid. Your parents, and Hunyewat…they will be with you.”

  He put his hand lightly on her arm. The power of human touch cannot be underestimated. Joan could never have explained it, but a flash of energy—a vigor—rushed into her, from his crusty, wrinkled, aged fingers to her strapping, youthful arm. A strength. A quiet strength.

  One of the most difficult things Joan ever did was say goodbye to the Children. She never had a chance to say good-bye to her mother, her father, Jack, or Kaleb, and now she was unsure how to go about it.

  One Who Sees wept, and they held on to each other.

  “It’s not forever, Lionheart. We’ll be back here next year,” One Who Sees cried between sobs.

  The children’s faces hung in sadness. They were losing their big sister, Lionheart. Quiet Snowfall held tightly to Joan’s pant leg. Red Lilly, usually so shy, cried, as she handed Joan a bracelet she had woven.

  “Here, I made this,” Red Lilly said.

  It was thin, brown twine with colorful beads and stones interlaced.

  “I helped her,” Quiet Snowfall chimed in. “Held the beads for her.”

  Crackling Fire, trying his best to remain as stoic as his father, pronounced, “I drilled the holes in the stones. The blue ones, see?”

  Joan gazed at them. “Beautiful. Here, tie it on me.”

  Red Lilly stopped sobbing and carefully wrapped it around Joan’s wrist, near her tattoo.

  “I’ll treasure it. I’ll think of you three every time I look at it.”

  Old Owl pretended he wasn’t upset, but he obviously held back tears.

  Joan pleaded with the old man, “Please, don’t you cry, too. I can’t handle that.”

  She held out to him the photo of her parents. “Here, for safekeeping for me.”

  The old man took it. “It will remind me.”

  Arrow Comes Back austerely stood before her.

  Joan grappled for what to say to him, “Thank you, from my heart. I don’t know what would have happened to me, if not for you. You didn’t just save my life. You…all of you,” she turned toward the group. “You helped me in so many ways. You helped me to live.”

  “You’ll do the same for others,” Arrow Comes Back said—as a statement, not a question.

  He held out something to her. It was the rattle—the tail of the rattlesnake she had killed.

  “To remind you. Of your strength. I hope to see you next year, my sister,” Arrow Comes Back said.

  She wanted to hug him but didn’t.

  39

  The autumn sun shone at a sharper angle to the Earth, casting a longer shadow, as the large group rode in a straggly line through the desert. They traveled cautiously, on the lookout for the Alliance army. Lucas had scouts ride ahead. Usually, the army posed no risk, but they were out in force looking for Duncan. The army had found Duncan’s durable, with the dead ruff beside it. They assumed Duncan had been the victim of foul play. Duncan’s family was important, so the army wasn’t holding back in its search.

  The group planned to travel by horseback for a week or two. When they reached the main highway, Lucas had durables and trucks waiting to transport them to Seaton.

  They got along cordially. Lucas, his officers, and aides pitched their tents near each other and spent their evenings huddled in meetings.

  Reck stayed in a tent with Resistance soldiers. He officially joined up with them and cherished his Resistance issue rifle. Since Kaleb’s death the previous month and the revelation of her betrayal of her mother, Reck avoided Joan. He spent his time with Lucas’s group. Twice she confronted him, and twice he rebuffed her.

  Isabel and Bash were clearly a couple, and they camped apart from everyone else. Joan pitched her tent close to theirs, with Duncan sleeping nearby. The awkwardness between Duncan and Joan had passed, replaced with an easy co-existence between the two. But Duncan never said her name.

  Joan shifted her weight in the saddle, as she glanced at Duncan clumsily riding ahead of her. He held on tightly, concentrating on maintaining his balance on the trotting animal. He had recently learned how to ride and still had not mastered it. Joan chuckled. Duncan, not self-conscious, had practiced with the horse, right in the middle of the Children’s camp. A large crowd of kids had gathered, laughing at his inabilities. He had laughed and joked along with them.

  Isabel and Bash rode behind Joan, and when she turned around, she spied them kissing. Joan received a vicarious thrill watching them—the love they shared. Would she ever have a love so powerful?

  Joan became acquainted with Lucas’s personal servant, 12. After a slight hesitation, he told her his name was Conrad. Joan recognized his concern—knew why he paused. She would have thought him free from the fear and the old rules, since he’d been so long away from the Alliance. It can take a long time, she pondered ruefully. Emotional chai
ns and mental chains can be stronger than iron chains. The Lucas family had employed him as a servant since his youth. He escaped with them. Conrad had noticed Joan’s surprise when Lucas referred to him by his number. It was just easier for Lucas to call him by his number, Conrad explained. He was used to it. Contrary to Joan’s initial guess, Conrad was not a member of the donor contingent. He was Lucas’s personal servant.

  As they journeyed, Joan wore the same clothes and brown hat Bash purchased for her. She pulled the hat near her eyes. Because of the tacked-up brim, the left side of her face glistened a slightly deeper shade of tan, mixed with a little sunburn. She had tied the tail of the snake to her belt, and the lion figurine remained around her neck.

  Reck urged his horse next to hers.

  “Joan,” he spoke tentatively. “About what happened. I understand…Whatever you did…I’m sure you had to do it. I’m sorry about what I said. It was just hard for me to handle it all.”

  Hard for him? she thought. What about her?

  “I didn’t tell anyone. No one has to know.”

  “But you know,” she said, exasperated.

  “Look, I don’t know what happened. Why you…I just want it to be like it was. Like we were.”

  Joan didn’t understand. “You want to be back with me?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, like we were.”

  “Reck, I’m not the girl in that poster. I’m just a girl. Can you still…accept that? I mean, accept me?”

  He pulled his horse up. She stopped hers.

  “Yes. I want to.” With more certainty, “I love you. I always have.”

  They leaned together and embraced. He kissed her.

  “It’ll be like it was, right?” he said, embracing her again.

  The touch of him against her felt comforting. His arms brought a measure of security to her. She took his hand in hers and saw his tattoo. In a way, she told herself, their shared tattoo was their lifeblood, keeping them centered.

  “We’ll make a good team, won’t we, with the Resistance? Kaleb would have wanted it,” he smiled.