Clover

by Lisa Jade

  Nel raises her head.

  “Really? You don’t think it’s just a normal part of life?”

  “No way. The rest of us have no choice but to work until we drop. We have to accept that. Choosing to become a Breeder means you leave everyone else behind. Like you’re better than them.”

  She bites her lip.

  “I’m not so sure. Hearing some of them talk, I think sometimes it’s just an accident.”

  “No way! The Guards have always kept men and women apart. You have to make a special effort if you want to end up pregnant. It doesn’t just happen! It’s just... ugh. Selfish.”

  I stand and reach for my jacket. It’s always good to keep one nearby, even when it’s hot. You never know when it’s going to start raining, and this has been a particularly wet summer.

  “Have you never considered it?”

  Nel’s voice is so small, so hushed that for a moment I wonder if I actually heard it.

  “Considered what?”

  “Having a kid,” she mutters, “just to get out of here.”

  My chest tightens.

  “No. Have you?”

  She rubs idly at her scalp.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the only choice I have.”

  I don’t reply. There’s nothing to say. So I just sit down and wrap an arm around her shoulder. The closeness is uncomfortable and strange, but it’s Nel. She’s harmless.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” she chuckles. I shake my head. I do - but I’m not about to tell her that.

  “Of course not. People always go through a phase when they think about other things.”

  “Did you?”

  I consider this.

  “Well, yes and no. I went through a phase, about four years back, where I just wanted to break out of routine. Didn’t want to snap or anything, but I needed some kind of change. I was going mad.”

  “What did you do?”

  I heave a pained sigh.

  “Well, I uh... I signed up for six months in the Mines.”

  She gapes, and suddenly I think maybe I’m the crazy one.

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  I shrug.

  “It was something I hadn’t done before. Something new, but not permanent. I didn’t want to do something stupid and throw it all away, but I needed to see what could be different if I did.”

  “And what happened?”

  I shake my head. I don’t like to talk about the mines. I know the whole experience was self-inflicted, so I can’t expect much sympathy, but the memory of tiny caverns and the pitch black still set my heart racing.

  “The work itself was fine, if not a bit boring. The people were a bit off, though in all fairness, I guess I should have expected that. They were always whispering, always sneaking around. But I could have lived with that. At least it was a change of pace. The worst thing was the pain.”

  I reach up and rub at the back of my neck. It aches just remembering.

  “You spend all day crouching in the dark. You get plastered in dirt, head to toe. It’s in your eyes, in your throat. And even if you’re used to chopping wood, mining is a whole new world.”

  My hand finds its way to my shoulder and I remember the way the muscles there had burned after every movement, the heat burrowing into my flesh. Like I was being ripped in half.

  “By the end of it, I was actually so messed up they took me off-work for a few days. But that’s just the physical reminder.”

  Nel’s hand finds mine, but I move it away and grin.

  “Hey, it’s fine. I’m back, aren’t I?”

  “So that was enough for you?”

  “Of course it was. What you know might not be perfect, but there are worse things than the farm. It’s not worth killing yourself just to try something new.”

  She nods, and although it’s not what she wants to hear, she seems to accept it. I’m not an idiot – if I warn her, she’ll listen to me. She’s just lucky I’m not telling her about the true horrors of the mines. The endless darkness, the claustrophobia. Even now, I feel a little unnerved to be alone in the dark.

  “You’re right,” she says, “What was I thinking?”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Now come on, the Farm awaits.”

  There’s a gentle rain today. It breaks over the field and fills it with a cool, light mist. While it’s refreshing and rather pleasant, it makes the handle of the axe slippery. I reach for my jacket, using the sleeve to dab it dry.

  “Nice thinking. Mind if I borrow that?”

  I toss it over to Kane. He’s smiling today. The slouch in his back has gone, and he’s standing taller than ever. There’s even colour in his cheeks.

  “Thanks.”

  I swing the axe overhead and chop the wood cleanly, then take a moment to look around. Wirrow and the other Guards are nowhere near us, giving us some freedom to talk.

  “You seem happier today,” I say, “did something good happen?”

  “Not really. It’s just a good day. You know?”

  I gaze up at the cloudy sky and grimace.

  “If you say so.”

  He just chuckles and swings the axe even higher. A smile plays on my lips.

  “I’m glad to see you like this,” I say softly. He knocks the chopped wood off the block and turns to me, eyebrows raised.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know – less angry, I guess. Doesn’t it feel good to have accepted things?”

  His lips tighten.

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s so much easier when you’re not trying to fight everything.”

  He hesitates, and for a long moment I think he’s going to disagree with me. But then he leans down to put a new log on the block.

  “You know what, you’re right. It is easier. No point fighting it.”

  My chest aches. I’m so happy. If nothing else, at least I managed to stop him kicking off. He may not know it, but I’ve just saved him from a lifetime of torture in the mines.

  We work in silence for the rest of the day. When the floodlights finally burst into life and the whistle blows, we throw down our axes with a strong sense of relief.

  I glance across at Kane. He’s rubbing his shoulder, wincing from the pain.

  “You alright?”

  He pulls a face.

  “I hurt... everywhere.”

  I slap him playfully on the back.

  “You’ll get used to it. Come on, it’s time for dinner.”

  “Isn’t it too early?” he asks, waving a hand at the sky. It’s not as dark as it was yesterday, and there’s a good reason for that.

  “It’s our turn to cook dinner for the masses,” I tell him, “we go in an hour early so that the food’s ready for everyone else.”

  He seems to brighten up at that, and as he walks alongside me, there’s an added bounce in his step.

  “I am absolutely starving.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. We get whatever’s left after everyone else has eaten.”

  His face falls.

  “Ugh. Great. Cold potatoes and sludge.”

  I laugh. It’s a deep, throaty sound that echoes across the paddock. A couple of workers pause and turn around, but their blank stares just serve to amuse me.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one in a good mood,” Kane teases.

  “Don’t you try and pick a fight with me, Kid. I’ve got five years and fifty pounds on you.”

  It’s true. He’s much taller than I am, but as I shift muscles flex on my arms, legs and shoulders. His shoulders, though, are tiny, hunched and pale. His arms are so thin I could probably snap them if I wanted to.

  “Yeah,” he mutters, “when do I get my abs?”

  “Your what?”

  He points at one of the other men in the group. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around. He’s usually shirtless, and rather arrogant about his bulging, rippling muscles. He stretches one arm overhead and a nearby girl
coos.

  “You want to look like that?” I ask, incredulous, “the guy looks like a thumb.”

  “Who cares? That’s what girls like.”

  I snort so loud that people stare.

  “Kid, no. It’s not. And you shouldn’t be worried about what girls like, anyway. You’ve got more important things to worry about than girls and romance.”

  The kitchens are always a fresh kind of hell. Hot, claustrophobic, and always inexplicably filled with steam. I wipe the sweat from my brow and slam the oven door shut with a clang. The others mill around me, chopping vegetables, boiling potatoes. A girl with blonde pigtails shouts over.

  “Noah, how’s the stew coming along?”

  I frown. I’ve always felt it’s a stretch to call it stew. Gruel would be more appropriate. We’re only allowed to use the waste parts of the animal, so all the hooves and ears and bits of inedible gristle go into our evening meals. The result is a grey-pink sludge that retains its heat for all of thirty seconds and can’t be touched more than a few minutes later.

  “It’s as good as it’s ever been. So.. terrible,” I reply. She tosses her head back and laughs.

  I take advantage of the brief reprieve and lean back against one of the industry-grade fridges. My eyes glide across the room, and somehow my gaze falls upon a pot. It’s metallic, considerably battered and only slightly rusty. It sits on the stove, the water inside just starting to boil.

  I take a step forward, glancing around to make sure nobody else can see me, and lean down.

  My own face stares back at me from the shiny surface.

  My skin is burnt brown from the sun and covered in freckles. There’s a smear of something black across one of my cheeks. I wipe it away and push a lock of hair from my eyes. It’s dirty blonde and hangs around my shoulders. Most people either tie it up or buzz it, but neither way has ever appealed to me.

  We don’t get to see ourselves very often. There’s no rule against it; we just have no reason to keep mirrors around. My scarred fingers find their way to my brow, sweeping over the dark circles on my cheeks. My eyes are blue, and I suppose they’d be pretty on a different face, but on mine they look dusty and grey.

  “Noah?”

  I whip around – blond pigtails girl stands behind me, one eyebrow raised.

  “What are you doing?”

  I instinctively shrink back. I might be bigger than her, but I’m not the best at confrontation.

  “N-nothing. Sorry.”

  She sighs.

  “Whatever. Look, go out and get serving.”

  I obey immediately, grabbing a tray of sludge and carrying it out into the mess hall.

  It’s only in the mess hall that I ever really consider how many Mill workers there are. Thousands of figures fill the room, forcing the inedible mush down their throats. In one corner I can see the old guys; the ones who have been here for decades. Their hands shake as they spoon the food into their mouths, but they smile as they do so. I wince at the dark brown spots on their skin, and the creases at the corners of their eyes and mouths. Not everyone grows to be that kind of age here. There are plenty of occupational hazards so generally people don’t live to become fragile.

  The newbies sit nearby, perhaps soaking up some comfort from the old guys. They all look the same, pale and thin and quaking. Some rub at their shoulders or hands, grimacing at the fresh cuts and bruises. I stand with the hot tray in my hands, unable to feel through the thick scar tissue on my fingertips, and smirk.

  They’ll get used to it soon enough.

  One of the older men approaches me, holding out a dirty plate. I grab a ladle and dish some more out for him. Technically we’re not supposed to give out seconds, but there’s an unwritten rule that it’s okay to do it for the old guys. He winks as he takes the plate and I feel a small rush of respect.

  He wanders back to the table with the others and I watch for a moment, the feeling building in my chest. Something about the old guys has always motivated me. A small part of me wants to be them someday, softer and more weathered but solid as a rock. Someone the others look to with respect, and maybe even a small amount of admiration.

  I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t bother to look at the next person who approaches. I take their plate and scoop a spoonful of slop onto it.

  “Yuck! So, what? I get all the gross bits and none of the veggies?”

  I glance up. Nel is frowning at me.

  “Sorry about that.”

  She leans over the counter.

  “What are you staring at?”

  Blood rushes to my face. Great. Was I just standing here and gaping like a moron?

  “Nothing.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Oh no. I know you better than that. Ooh, it’s a boy, isn’t it?”

  My face falls and I heave a sigh. This again. Nel has convinced herself that I’m like some of the younger, tittering girls around here, only able to see the opposite sex and nothing else. But I’ve never felt even the slightest twinge of attraction. Not to men, women, nothing. I briefly wonder if that’s even something my brain knows how to do.

  “Of course it’s not a boy. You know that.”

  “I don’t know everything about you, Noah. Somewhere under that hard shell, who knows, there might be an actual teenage girl!”

  I let out a playful growl and she chortles.

  “Okay, okay. Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out for myself.”

  Tonight, we don’t bother staying up to talk. My eyes are heavy and I collapse onto the camp bed the moment I reach it. Nel lies down too, stretching her arms overhead.

  “Night.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” I mutter, rubbing at my eye, “You had to split the cows and the calves today, right? How did that go?”

  Nel seems to hesitate.

  “I don’t want to talk about work.”

  I roll onto my stomach.

  “What are you talking about? It’s literally the only thing we can talk about.”

  She remains silent, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. I follow her gaze. There’s a hole in the roof where the metal has rusted through, revealing the tiniest sliver of the night sky. It’s an absolute nightmare in the winter – but she’s always enjoyed the sight. I don’t mind it myself.

  But tonight she stares up and out of the little gap, her eyes filled with an emotion I can’t quite place. It resembles sadness, but it’s somehow different. Her eyes glisten, and I find myself wondering if they’re wet with unshed tears.

  “Nel. Nel, I’m sorry.”

  She rubs her face, and when she speaks, her voice wavers.

  “It’s nothing. Sorry.”

  We lie quietly for a minute, and I’m not sure if I should try to comfort her or not. Nel’s always had this thing about family. About splitting up. I guess, now I come to think about it, she usually projects it onto the animals.

  I bite the inside of my mouth so hard it hurts. I want to tell her not to get so emotional about it. That none of us have parents and you don’t see anyone else complaining. But that’s just it. I never complain. I’ve never taken time to consider what it would be like to have a family – nor what it would be like to be ripped away from them. I can’t imagine what it would be like to love someone else that much.

  My chest pangs with guilt. That’s not entirely true. I don’t know what I’d class Nel as; a friend, a fellow worker, a neighbour. But there’s something there, in that I’d feel sad if she was gone or if I could never see her again.

  But family? That’s a whole other ballpark.

  We all have parents. It’s a biological fact. But that’s where the ideal of ‘family’ stops. Once we leave Homestead, our parents forget about us. They move on to the next child, dedicating the next twelve or thirteen years solely to them. We’re sent to the Mill and put to work. Slowly but surely, we all forget them. Forget their faces, their names. The fact that they even existed.

  I don’t remember anything before coming to the Mill
– and that’s the norm around here. If we don’t forget things straight away, the Guards have a cocktail of injections they can use to wipe the last few days, weeks or months. It’s not a pleasant experience. In fact, it’s mostly used as a punishment. That feared ‘fresh start’ they always talk about.

  “Nel?”

  My voice is soft, but it echoes across the now quiet room. For a moment she’s silent and I wonder if she’s asleep, but then she turns her head.

  “Yeah?”

  I reach an arm across the alleyway between our camp beds. It takes a moment, but then she reaches out her own. We grasp hands in the darkness. We lie like that for a while, eyes closed, room silent around us. When she finally lets go and rolls away, her expression seems to have brightened. My hand hangs off the edge of the bed, and I don’t bother to lift it back up. Instead, I just bury my face in the pillow and wait for sleep to come.

  The next few weeks fly by. We shift from the wood blocks to the fields, which is easier work. It involves a lot of carrying, and pulling massive, heavily-laden carts around the Mill. My legs ache afterwards, but it’s a pleasant change from the constant pain in my shoulders.

  Each day seems to be a tiny improvement on the last. Kane seems brighter every time I see him, and it’s not long before he starts joining me and Nel for dinner. She seems to like him well enough. She laughs at his pointless jokes and teases him about his height and naiveté. He takes it all in good humour, and surprisingly there are a few occasions where I catch myself chuckling along with them.

  But Kane’s behaviour still isn’t normal. Initially I dismiss it; he must be missing his parents. But since he never seems to mention them, I eventually stop guessing. He flickers from relative happiness to boundless excitement that threatens to boil over. He bounces on his heels a lot, and when he smiles he bares his teeth like a worked-up animal. Granted I never knew him before, but I get the distinct feeling that this isn’t how he normally is.

  Still, each time I catch sight of something odd, I ignore it. Whatever’s going on with him, it’s none of my business. Maybe he’s caught the eye of some girl. Maybe he’s discovered a newfound passion for serving warm gruel. Perhaps he’s just grown accustomed to the sense of satisfaction that comes with a hard day’s work. I simply don’t know.