“Without words, how can we reach out to others? How can we express our love for one another?” she said.
She was thinking of all the words she and Benjamin had shared. Thinking of the few precious words she could remember from her parents. Thinking of Marlo and all the words she desperately wanted to say to him. Layer upon layer of words. Suddenly, a roar from outside filled the room. The unmistakable sound of a battle commencing.
Noa cocked his head. “Listen!” he said as the cries from outside tried to drown out his words.
“See how we express love for one another? No, Letta. The time for words is gone. We can control men’s bodies, but their minds teem with words, and the words are rotten to the core.” He was roaring now, his own words bouncing off the high walls. “They need to be cauterized, cleansed, eradicated. How do you like those words, Letta?”
“You all right, master?” came Werber’s voice from somewhere beneath their feet.
Letta dared not look.
“All well,” said Noa, and Letta could see him breathing rapidly, trying to calm himself. “Stay. Guard door. I can handle this.”
Noa held up the canister. He could open it in a heartbeat, she thought. A flick of his wrist and it would be done. Letta walked farther along the walkway, a pulse throbbing in her throat. Images filled her head of her body falling into the chasm below. She dug her nails into her hands.
“The Green Warriors and I will still have language,” he said. “To finish what we started, but the next generation and all other generations will be Wordless, because they will never be contaminated by language.”
His words were flying all about her now. Red fireflies, chaotic, out of control. The room was spinning faster, drawing her toward its vortex.
He raised his hand to open the canister.
“You think you have all the answers, Letta. In that, you are very like your mother.”
She managed to take a step, but the dizziness almost overpowered her. Don’t slip, she told herself. Don’t slip! She was near enough to grab him, she thought. Throw him off balance. His hand still hovered over the top of the canister. He was talking again. She tried to focus on what he was saying. Outside, the noise of battle was getting louder.
“I knew her, you know, your mother. I knew her very well.”
“I doubt that,” Letta retorted. “I doubt you really knew her at all. You didn’t know Leyla, did you? You didn’t think she would stand up to you and try for something better. And you didn’t know my mother. She was the bravest of them all. That’s what Amelia said. The bravest of them all.”
She saw the confusion on his face, and for a second, she forgot her fear, forgot that she was on a high walkway with a drop on either side, forgot about her mother, forgot everything but what she had to do. Her legs stopped shaking, her heart slowed.
“Put down the canister,” she said.
And suddenly, the knife was in her hand.
“It is over for you, Letta, but not for me and not for Amelia—”
“Amelia?”
The word shot from her mouth, sharp and true.
Noa stood up taller.
Letta laughed then, a harsh, forced sound.
“Really?” she said. “You believe that? After what you did to Leyla? You think Amelia will stand by you? How little you know her!”
“Amelia will forgive me,” he said. “She will understand that—”
Letta took another step toward him.
“No!” she said. “She will never forgive you. Have you not wondered how I knew where to find you? And when to find you? How I knew about my mother?”
She saw the confusion on his face again. A flickering light in his eyes, there and then gone. He shrugged.
“What does it matter who told you?”
Please let this work, Letta thought. Let him love her as much as I think he does.
“Amelia told me.” Letta’s words slipped into the half light, testing, challenging.
“No!” he said. “Liar.”
“Yes,” Letta said, taking another shaking step. But it was as if her body had woken up again and realized where it was—poised on the edge of a precipice. She could feel the sweat prickling her skin, her breath coming in labored gasps, too fast, not enough air. Her brain was screaming at her to go back, her head pounding, her legs weak. His face was splitting into two faces, one overlapping the other, the edges blurred, everything in constant motion.
“Amelia betrayed you.” She forced the words out and was rewarded when she saw the color drain from him.
She took another step. She felt as if she were walking on a high wire. She looked down, despite herself, and felt an overwhelming urge to jump, to let her body fall down into that abyss. A mist descended before her eyes. The background noises receded. She was going to faint.
No! Talk to him! Talk! She forced herself to look at him.
“You thought she loved you, didn’t you?”
His hands began to shake. “Get back!” The words came out like a whisper.
Letta stopped. Was the walkway swaying? She had to take advantage of his shock. Words would only get her so far. She took another step.
“She doesn’t love you, John. You lost that when you broke her heart.”
“No!” he cried. “You’re lying. Amelia would not betray me.”
Outside, Letta heard uproar from the front yard, as what sounded like a herd of wild animals came teeming through the out-of-sight boundaries and hurtled toward the tower.
For a second, all was quiet, as if the building itself was holding its breath. Then a ferocious crash tore through the air, a bang like a cannon blast. Letta screamed as the old wooden door below splintered, sundered, and fell. The noise of battle filled the tower. Men and women shouting, screaming, scuffling, grunts of pain mingled with the smell of fresh blood. Letta glanced down. Creators and gavvers swarmed beneath her feet, locked in battle. The picture swam before her eyes. She saw people hack and stab one another, beat and kick one another and, in the middle of it all, Marlo, locked in hand to hand combat with a gavver twice his size.
“Marlo!”
Distracted, he looked up, and Letta watched in horror, as the gavver raised a finely honed dagger and aimed it at Marlo’s throat.
“Marlo!” she screamed again. She saw him turn and grab the other man’s arm, forcing the dagger to fall to the floor. Marlo raised his own knife, and Letta could almost feel the soft flesh yield beneath the blade, feel the veins slice and rupture. The body sagged. The man fell to the floor.
Noa lunged at her then, throwing his body forward, trying to knock her off balance. She felt the rough cloth of his coat under her hand and clung to it. On either side of her, the void loomed. She could feel herself falling, losing balance. She managed to drop to her knees. From there, she grabbed onto his legs. He kicked out, knocking her onto her back.
She looked up to see him fumbling with the top of the canister. She hauled herself onto her feet. She stretched up and grabbed his wrist. The canister was so close she could see her own eyes reflected in it. He jerked his arm, pulling her toward him. She could feel his breath on her face. With his other hand he caught the back of her neck in a vice-like grip.
“Look!” he said. “Look down!”
She glimpsed the drop beside her, and dizziness overcame her. Don’t let go of him! She raised the knife and bore down with all her strength. She felt it cut through flesh and hit bone. Somewhere far away, she heard him scream. As he did, she lost her balance, stumbling backward. She fell heavily, narrowly avoiding the edge of the walkway, her elbows and the back of her head smashing into the wooden slats.
Painfully, she hauled herself to her feet. He was still struggling with the top of the canister. Her whole body swayed. This is it, she thought. Images of the Wordless flashed before her. She had to try one more time. Her heart thumping,
she made a wild lunge at Noa’s hand. She felt the cold metal under her fingers for a second, and then it was gone. Noa had yanked his arm backward to avoid her, but the sudden movement unbalanced him.
As she watched, he lost his footing, stumbled backward, and then in slow motion, she saw him topple, tumble, and dive over the edge of the platform, down, down into the throng of bodies below, a wounded bird, buffeted on a seething wave of humanity, his coat flapping in the stale air. She watched until he came to rest in a crumpled heap on the stone floor.
There was a stunned second of silence, and then commotion broke out, with screams and cheers and roars from the opposing forces. For a moment, Letta was aware of Werber standing slack-jawed, staring down at his master’s body. Slowly, he raised his head and looked up at her. Their eyes locked.
The canister rolled along the floor, lit by the bright new sun pouring through the windows, and then she heard Carver’s voice like a roar of thunder.
“Get her!”
It seemed to Letta that the scene below shattered into tiny fragments:
Carver with three of his men advancing on the stairway.
Finn slammed to the floor by a gavver, his hands covering his head.
Another gavver thrown across the room by a ferocious Kirch Tellon.
Marlo on his feet, blood streaming from his head, blocking the stairs supported by a squad of his own people.
Beside him, Mrs. Pepper swinging a wooden bat at anyone foolish enough to come within her reach. Mrs. Pepper a Desecrator!
Carver shrieking at his own men as they spread out in a line in front of the doorway.
And then Finn looked up at her.
“Letta!” he shouted.
She was about to rush to the stairs when she noticed the canvas pipes. Maybe she could use these to create a distraction.
Pulling out her knife, she began to hack at the pipe nearest to her. But the thick fabric resisted the blade.
“Letta!” she heard Finn’s voice again, more urgent now.
She raised her arm and stabbed the fabric with all her might and was rewarded with a spray of water that hit her in the eyes, blinding her for a second.
Disappointment surged through her as she realized it was nothing like she’d hoped for. In her imagination a huge wave of water would burst from the pipe, creating enough of a distraction to give her friends a chance to escape, but now she saw that her gesture was pointless.
“Letta!” Finn’s voice rent the air. “Now! Jump!”
She stumbled toward the stairs. Beneath her, the hall was still thronged with people, grappling, stabbing, falling. She stopped and looked down the length of the stairs. The Creators were losing ground, being pushed back up the stairs by a pack of resolute gavvers, led by Carver. There was no way she could force her way through. She looked down and to her right. The gray wolf had closed the tunnel, but if she could get to it…
Bang! A hook narrowly missed her head and caught in the banisters. Beneath it like a long tail, a rope fell into the hall.
“Come on, Letta!” Finn shouted at her. “Grab the rope!”
She looked down. She couldn’t do it. But even as the words formed in her head, she was swinging her leg over the banister. Her hands felt the coarse rope. She jumped. All the air was sucked from the room. She wrapped her legs around the rope. Her body swung out over the void, momentarily becalmed above a boiling vat of fury.
Marlo! Where is he? Her eyes scanned the room. There he was! At the bottom of the stairs, still pushing back the bank of gavvers who assailed it. Beside him, Mrs. Pepper battled furiously. And then she saw it. Carver! He was standing, gun in hand, aiming it at Marlo.
“Marlo!” Letta screamed, but her warning was drowned in the waves of noise coming from the battle. Then she reached out and kicked the wall behind her with all her force, propelling herself forward. With both feet, she struck Carver’s head with as much power as she could muster and felt the satisfying heft of his body being pitched forward. He staggered. The gun went off.
“Marlo!” Letta screamed just as Mrs. Pepper stumbled and fell from the stairs, her head smashing on the stone floor. Marlo looked up at Letta, his face white and drawn, eyes wide and staring. What had she done? Had she killed Mrs. Pepper?
“Letta!” Finn’s voice called urgently from the hall.
Letta slid down the rope, white-hot pain searing her hands as the rope burned her palms. She had to get to the canister.
She stumbled across the hall, dodging bodies as she went, Finn doing his best to shepherd her. She pulled away from him, dropped to the floor, and crawled, the prize only strides from her, sparkling in the sunlight. With one huge effort, she pushed her way through and grabbed it, its metal casing cold in her hands. And then pain exploded in her lower back as a boot crashed into her. She looked up in time to see Carver staring down at her.
“Give it to me!”
He drew back his boot to kick her again when two men locked in combat fell across his path. Letta looked around desperately, trying to see a way through, but her path was blocked by a phalanx of gavvers, truncheons in their hands, coming straight for her.
It’s hopeless, she thought, when suddenly, above it all, she heard a loud rip, a groan from the top of the tower, as the canvas pipe burst. Then the gushing fall of water, inflated by enforced containment, swallowed all other sounds, drowning them in the noise of its own rage. Whoosh! The torrent hit the stone floor, scattering bodies as it fell on the battle, in one giant exclamation. Letta gasped as she was thrown back.
Clutching the canister to her chest, she hesitated for only a second, and then, her clothes heavy with water, her feet slipping and sliding, she dashed for the gray wolf stone. She placed her hand on the wolf’s head and pushed. The stone moved to reveal the gaping mouth below.
It was too dark to see much, but the air that rushed back at her was stale and dank. There was a ladder attached to the wall of the tunnel. With her free hand, Letta grabbed it and started to descend. Just as her foot hit the third rung, a hand clamped down on her arm, the fingers digging into her painfully. No! she thought. I can’t fail now. She looked up fully expecting Carver’s small eyes to look back at her. But it wasn’t Carver. Her throat constricted, she could barely force the word out.
“Werber!”
His grip tightened.
“Please, Werber,” she said, staring into his eyes. Deep pools of brown like she had seen in the fields on harsh winter days. Letta held her breath. He looked back over his shoulder, a quick, furtive glance, then turned and faced her again. His mouth opened.
“Go!” he said in a jagged whisper. “Go!”
Above her head, the stone slid back into place, blocking out the light, enveloping her in darkness.
Chapter 25
Non-List
Future
The time that is yet to come
Out on the ocean, the night had started to give way to the day. Standing at the edge of the sea, Letta listened to the beat of the waves as they hit the shore and wondered what the future would bring. It had scarcely been a week since the confrontation in the water tower. The canister with its lethal contents was in safe hands. They still had to find a way to destroy it, a way to make sure it could never threaten them again.
She had escaped the clutches of the gavvers, crawled through the secret passage Noa had built from the water tower to the basement of his house. She had survived, but many of the Creators had not. Some had died in the battle at the tower. Others had been arrested later and executed. Amelia had taken power. Her aunt Amelia. Even now, she struggled with that reality.
Letta herself was on the wanted list, and she knew that if caught, she would be shown no mercy. In the seven days that had passed, Amelia had already proven herself a ruthless enemy. Tonight, Letta would slip into the forest and start again. She was a wordsmith, a color-catcher, just like Benjam
in and Leyla and her parents had been. That knowledge was what she would take with her.
She looked at the parcel in her hands. As Benjamin had promised, Finn had found it in the bottom drawer of the old man’s desk. Brown paper tied with hemp string. She pulled at the knots and they fell away before her awkward fingers. She smoothed back the wrapping. Inside, she could see folded sheets, which smelled of beetroot. She tore more of the wrapping until she was able to lift the contents clear.
She opened the first document. It was a map. Hand drawn and a little faded but totally legible. She frowned. What did it mean? The other documents were also maps and charts. Finally, she saw the note.
These are the maps and charts your parents took with them. I copied them so that one day you might have them. Go safely, little one.
She almost stopped breathing. Nothing moved. She could hear her own heart, feel the blood rushing through her veins. She steadied herself and wrapped the papers up carefully.
She was the wordsmith. That would have to come first: people needed her, and she would not let them down. But somewhere, in her future, she knew that the boat with the silver sail had come just a little closer.
“Letta!”
The voice made her jump.
Marlo.
She watched him as he walked toward her, her heart quickening. In her mind, she could see the blue-gray eyes and smell the faint hint of sage. With a light heart, she turned and walked toward him.
Behind her, the sea lapped gently onto the sand, and over her head, a chattering of starlings wheeled in the air and headed south.
Letta turned, and raising one finger, she saluted the horizon, as she always did, just in case they were out there and could see her and would know she had not forgotten them. Out on that far horizon, where they now lingered, if not in body, then at least in spirit.
About the Author
Patricia Forde lives in Galway, in the west of Ireland, with her husband Padraic and two teenage children. She has previously published picture books and early readers for children in Irish and in English. She has written three plays and several television drama series for children and teenagers. In an earlier life, she was a primary school teacher and the artistic director of the Galway International Arts Festival.
The List Page 24