Rationed? Those few words are the words of a rebel, not the calm, strong Leader that I’m supposed to be. That I am. No matter what else, I am true to my civic duty. There is no question I am here for morale. I believe in our government and what we are doing more than anyone else. I know human beings were near extinction. I know it is a privilege to be released from the factories and squalor of the city and to be brought here to camp, with its beautiful lake and picturesque woods, to prepare for the Lettings. I know how lucky I was, me in particular, to be chosen for the Lettings and not for the Couplings. What I do is a civic duty, but it is also an honor. And when these girls blossom, they move on to the New World where they share in all of its glories and riches. My one regret is that I was never chosen to donate. But at least I can prepare those who can. No, I am certainly not a rebel. I am far from it. I am the girl who has willingly led hundreds of young girls to the Lettings.
I want to reiterate, to explain what I meant to say, but try as I might, I am tongue-tied. Suddenly, I feel young, and the image of my mother sitting at the edge of my bed is so vivid it takes my breath away. In the darkness and safety of the night, she told me stories of her mother’s great-grandmother who was part of the generation that lived in the Old World. She spoke so softly I strained to hear her words, and often wondered if they were truly meant for me to hear. I remember my mother dipping her small, white hand into a tin containing oil taken from sheep’s wool, and rubbing the calluses on my hands that formed from hours spent toiling in the factory. Quietly, in those moments only a mother and daughter can share, she told of a magical place where young girls were brought to dance classes and horseback riding lessons. Where they played in backyards littered with dandelions and not trash. Once, to show me what they looked like, she drew me a picture of a dandelion, which I still have to this day. I knew she had the impulse to crumple it up and throw it away, but instead, she gave it to me. She told me if anyone ever found that picture, I must tell them it is a picture of a flower in the New World I am eager to see. But these are not things I can share with these girls. These are things I should not even know. These things my mother said, confuse me still.
I clear my throat, snapping back to the suffocating heat of this night. “So, we are here today thanks to a few good people.”
“The Givers,” Raven whispers, sounding in awe of the word.
“The Givers,” I repeat back to her, solemnly. “Thanks to the Givers, we are all here today. And you girls, all chosen to participate in the Lettings, are so very special, because you will one day be able to cross into the New World.”
Soft spontaneous applause erupts. I smile at them, glad for their innocence and excitement, but somehow in my blood tonight, I feel it’s just not…right. I blame my odd feeling on the heat and try to push the thoughts out of my head. “All right girls, it’s lights out.” I start to rise.
“But the New World,” Lulu says quietly. “We didn’t hear about the New World.”
I can hear the ache in her voice. It is a young girl’s ache, brought about by loneliness. The way she speaks, the way she asks, I know she is holding on by a thread. She is waiting for her reunion. She is waiting to be back with her mother. I know that ache all too well. I’ve felt it for the past seven years.
“Okay,” I agree, feeling the tightness in my own throat. I am shocked I still feel this way after all of this time. Although I tried to let go of hope years ago, it seems hope won’t let go of me. Maybe that’s why I still sneak out every night, way past Leader’s curfew, to go deep into the woods to eat those mushrooms my mother insisted I eat when I was young.
“Veronica,” my mother had said that night. There was no impatience in her voice, though I could see the intensity in her eyes. “These are very special mushrooms.”
We were somewhere in the middle of our city, deep inside an old park. A place I had never been before. It was overgrown with weeds, and I remember the feeling of the weeds, hard and strong, brushing against my leg. One weed cut me slightly, but I could tell from my mother’s expression, it was not the time to tell her. It was time to concentrate.
“These will help you grow strong, but you must, must eat them every day. Do you understand me?”
I was too overwhelmed to speak.
“Now watch me,” my mother said. “These mushrooms are poisonous.” She pointed to another patch of mushrooms. They grew right next to the safe patch, and they looked remarkably similar.
“See how these grow in clusters?” she asked. “You have to avoid these. Veronica, listen to me.”
I looked up at her, feeling the urgency in what she said.
“The poisonous mushrooms will kill you.”
I felt myself take a step back from the mushroom patch. “But these others,” she said, squatting down and scooping up a single mushroom, “these will save your life.”
I only nodded at her that day, unaware of what any of it meant. She offered me the mushroom, and I bit into it, dirt and all. It tasted bitter, musky, and the grit ground in my teeth.
“Pew,” I exclaimed, spitting the mushroom onto the ground. I looked up at my mother. “It’s horrible.”
“I know.” She stood there stiffly for a few moments and then took the remainder of the mushroom out of my hand and dusted off all the dirt. “This should help.” She handed it back to me, and I took another bite. It still tasted bitter and musky, but there was less grittiness.
“Are you sure these are the right ones?” I asked, chewing as quickly as I could.
“Yes,” my mother said, never cracking a smile. She stepped forward and held out another. And you must be sure, too. Look.” She turned the mushroom upside down. “Look under the cap.”
“Here?”
“Yes. This part is called the gills. In your mushrooms, the spores hang onto the bottom of the cap. They are shaped like large round circles. This is how you know your mushrooms.”
“But they look like so many other mushrooms,” I remember saying, exasperated. My mother stepped forward and took me by the hand.
“These are your mushrooms,” she said, softly. And still holding my hand, we walked off together, through the tall weeds and past fallen bridges, until we saw the ancient clock with the animals, lying on the ground. This was to be my marker, my way in and out of the old park alone.
“You’ll be tired now,” she said to me. “Sleepy. The mushrooms will make you sleepy until your body gets used to them. That’s why you must remember to eat only one at a time.”
They tasted so vile, there was never any concern about me wanting more. That’s all I remember of that day.
And here, now, seven years later, I can navigate my way in and out of these deep woods alone. I can find my mushrooms in the pitch black of night with the stars as my guide. Still at seventeen-years-old, I steal away every night, though my reason for eating those mushrooms has dissolved. Certainly, by telling me the mushrooms would save my life, my mother meant they had nutrition I would never receive elsewhere. And she must have been right, because standing next to the other Leaders at camp I am nearly a foot taller than any one of them.
My jet black hair is long, too. It hangs down my back with a soft wave at the bottom. My skin is shiny, the color of maple syrup. Everything about me is strong. My arms, my long legs, even my facial features are prominent—my nose, high cheekbones, and dark brown, almond shaped eyes. I don’t know if I’m attractive, because frankly, it’s never mattered. My mother told me once some of my father’s ancestors were the first people to live on this land. The “Natives,” I think she called them. The other ancestors came from an exotic place on the other side of the world, a thriving place that once was painted in the color red. He was a perfect mix of both of them, and she said I am the spitting image of him. I like that, because although I’ve never known my father, we are still connected. And now, although I’m nearly grown, and I’m no longer in need of nutrition to help me grow, I still walk the woods nightly, telling myself it would make my mother happy.
My mother whom I haven’t heard from in four years. This ritual is the only other connection I have to my family, and it is one I cannot lose.
I need to shake my growing malaise and let these girls be hopeful. Looking over them, they seem no larger than the porcelain dolls I once made in the factory in the city. Is it possible that in only two days these tiny wisps of people will be hooked up to a complex system of machines far bigger than they are? Is it really their duty to allow the blood to be drained from their tiny, emaciated bodies? Even if it is all for the greater good? Yes, I tell myself, shaking my head. What they do is important. Someday, when they are old and living in the New World, if they need blood, a new crop of fledgling girls, just “ripe,” will supply them. It is the natural progression of life. And with that, I settle down to concoct a story of sweet candy drops hanging from trees and bedrooms filled with toys as far as the eye can see. And, of course, families who will be right there, next to them.
“In the New World…” I barely speak the last word when there is a hurried but faint knock on the cabin door. One of the girls shrieks and I can see those who are awake cower, climbing into their sleeping bags despite the stifling heat.
Without thinking, I am up and at the door. My lanky legs get me there within a second. Gretchen stands at the door. She is breathing heavily and drenched in perspiration. It looks and sounds as if she has just gone for a mile swim in the lake—something Gretchen would never have the strength or stamina to do.
“Gretchen?” I ask, confused. She almost always is asleep by this time. She’s out at nine at night, but up at four, so she can take a walk and meditate before we start our day. I have known her for the past five years, and we are as close as two friends can be.
“I need to come in,” she whispers.
She pushes past me and into the cabin. “Why are you here?” she asks, trying to make out the shapes in the dark.
“Nerves. They were nervous about the Letting.”
Gretchen nods, as if her thoughts are miles away.
“Ronnie, listen, you need to get back to the cabin, fast. When I went to the mess hall tonight to help clean, Margaret was on the walkie. I overheard her saying she wanted to tell you something ‘herself’ and ‘in person.’ She seemed really jumpy, Ron. Agitated. I don’t think she’ll wait ’til morning.”
I feel my stomach drop. I don’t know what this is, but I’m certain it’s not good.
“Do you have any guess?” I whisper. I hear my breath, hurried and shallow.
“None.” Gretchen shakes her head. “But this is Margaret. She’s had it in for you for…well, forever.”
She is right, and obviously, I wasn’t the only one to notice it.
“You’d better get back to the cabin.”
I nod, turning to the door. Then I remember my girls. “I need to say good-night,” I tell Gretchen.
“Forget it,” she snaps. “You’ll see them in the morning.”
“No,” I insist, with more force than I intend. “I’m not going to let them think I forgot them.” I turn and storm away from Gretchen.
I love Gretchen, but sometimes I think she really misses the point. She never seems to grasp what’s right there in front of her eyes. Even though we live together and work together, there’s something about her that remains a mystery to me—like those nights she is sound asleep calling out someone’s name. Günter, I think she murmurs in her garbled, sleepy voice. He must be someone left behind, as most boys are, to work the factories. I asked her about it once, but she refused to speak about it. I can’t blame her. Remembering things from the past can be too painful sometimes. Or maybe the mysterious aura that surrounds her is her illness, eclipsing her beauty, eclipsing, her. I feel for Gretchen, but there’s little I can do for her. Here, in cabin O, at least I can ease their fears. I go over to my sleeping dolls and stare down at them.
“Ladies,” I whisper. “You can come out.” Two little bodies wriggle their way out of their sleeping bags, trusting me implicitly. I wish I trusted myself that completely. “Good night, girls.” I bend down and touch each one briefly on the head for just a second. Even if they’re sleeping, I know they can feel the connection. Although we are a civilization that has survived the complete depletion of human connection, and should know better, we have such little of it here. If it’s all I can give them, at least I can give them this.
****
Gretchen is waiting for me, and in the darkness we walk side by side, quietly. She has no idea what this is about either, but I can tell by her quick pace and her stolen glances up at me, she is concerned. I find this even more unsettling. We are walking much too quickly for the heat, and both of us are sweated through by the time we are halfway to our cabin. Neither of us slows our pace, and I know Gretchen must be struggling to keep up. I look down at Gretchen, and in the faint moonlight, I can see her blonde hair shining. She is beautiful, and at sixteen, she is so very delicate, like a tiny ghost-girl with pale skin and deep violet rings under her large blue eyes. With her petite frame and soft voice, she doesn’t look or sound much older than the girls in cabin O. I think even if Gretchen was well and had been able to attend Lettings, they still would have kept her here at camp, rather than sending her directly to the New World. The girls are supposed to feel comfortable and bond with her because she looks like one of them. But for the most part, I haven’t seen that happen. I think it’s because poor Gretchen always seems worried, and it frightens the girls. I’ve just never ascertained what she’s worried about.
Through the darkness, our cabin magically appears before us. It’s still many yards away, but there’s no light on, which means Margaret isn’t there, yet. Margaret is terrified of the dark. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be for her here in the woods at night.
Gretchen and I let out a sigh at the same time. Without a word, I switch on the lamp in the corner and the fan in the window, and Gretchen and I make our way to our cots. We each sit, Gretchen, ladylike, on the edge of the cot, legs crossed at her ankles; me, cross-legged in the middle of my bed. We sit in silence for a few moments listening to each other breathe.
“Oh, all right,” I say finally, uncrossing my legs and standing. “Whatever it’s going to be, worrying won’t help.”
“I know.” Gretchen looks at me, and through the dim light, I can see the tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Oh Ronnie.” Gretchen falls forward, burying her face in her pillow. She lifts her head to speak. “It’s so selfish of me…but I can’t help but think they’re going to send you on to the New World. And what will I do here without you?”
The New World? The words sit heavily in the room. Of course, we talk about the New World nearly every day, but it’s always with the campers. Never each other. The thought of one of us heading to the New World…well, we always hoped we would someday. But now? Have I served my time? It’s almost too much to imagine. What will the New World be like? I mean, really like? I’m too old to believe in candy trees and toys, so what will be waiting for me? Then I let myself think the thought I try never to think. Will my mother be there, waiting for me? Or has she forgotten all about me?
My thoughts are interrupted by Gretchen’s small hand squeezing mine. “Ron? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Who knows what’s really going on? It could be some change in protocol, or something.”
I nod and we are startled by a knock on the door. Neither Gretchen nor I move. Neither of us speaks. We sit there, the silence palpable. The knock comes again, louder this time. The door rattles.
“Ronnie?” Gretchen whispers. I nod my head and cross to the door.
I pull the door open as if I’m yanking off a plastic bandage. The action startles Margaret who steps back as soon as she sees me. I have to admit I enjoy the moment of power over her. Although she is only one year older than me, at eighteen, Margaret runs the camp. Of course, she has orders and superiors, but I’ve never met them. Here, at this camp deep in the woods, Ma
rgaret is the law. And unfortunately, the law doesn’t much like me. I never really understood why. Margaret pulls herself together, visibly smoothing her shirt over her waistline. With long sleeves and long pants, she must be sweltering. She looks up at me. “May I come in?” she asks.
I step aside to let her pass.
Once she is inside the cabin, I see the eagerness in her eyes. Her eyes are a muddy green, and she is so happy about something, she is nearly giddy. She looks around for a place to sit but there isn’t one. And neither Gretchen nor I are going to offer up a cot, that’s for sure.
“Oh out with it, Margaret,” I snap, realizing how bossy I must sound. “Whatever you came for, I can tell you’re beside yourself with excitement. Just tell us.” I am careful to say “us,” not to tip my hand.
“I have wonderful news.” Margaret has a huge plastic smile growing wider on her face.
Outside, the world is quiet except for the cicadas. Their cries grow louder and louder until the sound has morphed into a cyclone inside my brain. I wish I could rip open the top of my head and force them out. I am heady, and dizzy. I reach my hand out to steady myself, but I grab only air. Behind me, I hear Gretchen’s shallow, hurried breathing.
“What is it?” I ask, breathless.
I pray Margaret is moving on to another camp. I know they must exist out here, somewhere. The woods are too vast for it to be only us. Or maybe she’s been given a higher rank, or a bigger command. Maybe she’s moving on to headquarters in the New World. If that’s the case then maybe…just maybe…maybe someone has noticed me? Maybe someone will leave me in charge of the camp? Margaret interrupts my thoughts when she wheels around on her ballet flats, facing me directly. Her hands fly up, unable to contain her mirth.
“You have been summoned to the next Letting!”
The Letting Page 2