Allison Rutherford was clearly a force that needed to be contained at any cost.
Richard nodded with transparent, mock satisfaction. Norman braced himself. The door to further questions had been opened. “The scavenging details just seem so desperate, after all the effort that’s been put into cultivating our own food supply. And frankly I’m shocked that there’s so little out there. I haven’t heard of a famine striking anywhere before this for… what? Twenty years? And now there’s nothing left at all?” He looked to John for confirmation.
John grumbled in agreement.
“It never rains, it pours, I suppose,” Richard finished.
John grumbled once more. “It could have been a lot worse for us if it had come even a year earlier. I don’t think that our stores could have kept us going this long if it had.”
Norman shrugged. “The land’s stripped bare. We had to go all the way to the coast just to get a few bags of fruit and venison.”
The two men frowned and shared a glance. Richard was still planning his next move, but his gaze now wandered the room, distracted.
“There’s really nothing at all?” John asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Even the sea’s dead. No fish since winter…since Southampton went quiet.”
He mused and muttered for some moments. “We knew the mass exodus from the south must have been caused by something, but still—everywhere?”
“I miss Market Day,” Sarah said mournfully. “The bakers from Whitstable—so much better than Hubble’s dusty loaves, theirs were—the millers from Blean, and the Torquay tea-runners. People used to come from all over to see us—see the libraries and the electric lights. Petham, Broadoak, Adisham… They can’t all have gone away.”
“They’re probably all dead,” John said.
Sarah looked wounded. “That’s callous.”
“It’s not callous to state the truth. The trade routes are long gone. Whoever survived winter moved north, or away from the cities. The rest died. It’s that simple.” John shrugged. “And we killed them.”
All eyes turned to him, stunned.
Norman felt a lump form in his throat, and found his gaze trained on the floor.
John’s maroon pug of a face had creased into a thin smile, and he pressed on—though it seemed that he now spoke more to himself than them. “Our best estimates put the population at—what—fifty thousand? That puts about ten thousand over the South, who can only occupy land away from urbanised areas. But even a handful of communities like ours make up at least half of that number, and each one draws its food from the most productive remaining rural areas. When our crops were hit so hard last year, we took what we had to.” John’s brows flickered skywards. “Everybody else lost out.”
There was a long silence.
“So why not group together, like us?” Richard said. “I can’t get my head around the tribal mentality. There’s safety in numbers: more hands to toil, more bargaining power, supply and demand, trade, mutual support—civilisation!” He frowned. “I just don’t understand it.”
“Of course you don’t, you’re just a boy,” John mumbled, poised over the chessboard. “That’s why I’m the Master and you’re the Student.”
“I’m still not happy with the title of ‘Master’,” Richard said with a heavy voice, his nose upturned. He moved a pawn and sat back, his hands behind his head. The smug expression remained upon his features long enough for everybody to have registered it, just in time for it to be swept away by the swift movement of John’s queen.
“Get used to it,” John said. “Western civilisation trumped the world’s tribes, hands down, but getting it started took millennia. Without places like this, mankind would have already slipped into a new Dark Age.”
Sarah tittered. “It’s all very well and good coming off high and mighty, but like I said, just last year people would have walked a hundred miles just to look at a light bulb. It was…magic to them. This place was magical.” She paused. “Our way of life hasn’t exactly spread like wildfire, has it?”
John turned his gaze upon her. “People won’t group together for a lot of reasons. First of all, it’s dangerous: if you get into trouble, you can’t run; you’re a bigger target; and you’re vulnerable to outbreaks of infection. And if that isn’t enough, you’ve got all of the troubles of organising sanitation, security, food and water, a law system, and all the other things we’re halfway through scrambling together.” He spread his hands. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“Look who’s talking,” said Richard.
“Careful, boy.”
Richard shook his head, as though shaking off a fly. “It’s still better than huddling for warmth in some mud hut somewhere.”
“That’s arguable. All of the problems that we have potentially outweigh the benefits. We just haven’t noticed because we’ve had a run of extremely good luck, until now.”
“But for nobody but us to even try…”
John waggled a finger. “Don’t think that people haven’t tried to do what we’re doing before. There’s been a lot of time for that—decades. I haven’t been here as long as some. I’ve seen other places where the lights still burned. And I’ve seen every one of them fall. They’ve all failed, because none of them had what we have here.”
“And what’s that?”
“We’ve got Alexander.”
At first, John’s final words sounded strange, almost childish, plainly reverential. And yet, nobody felt the urge to mock them. As fresh silence settled, those words seemed anything but childish. They were what they were: the plain, naked truth.
“And we’ve got you, Mr Creek,” John finished, gesturing to Norman with the slightest of curtseys.
Norman had been waiting for it, but warmth spread across his cheeks all the same. He did his best to smile. “Sure,” he said, looking into the eyes of a genius, and seeing nought but another zealot.
John smiled, and turned to the chessboard. “Checkmate,” he said, lifting Richard’s king to his lips with a flourish.
Richard grumbled, and began to reset the board with a patience and dexterity that could have only come from a thousand repetitions.
*
By the time the final school bell rang, Main Street was thronged by workers coming home from the fields. Not a single murmur graced the air. All that was audible was the sound of clanking hoes and dragging boots. The field hands’ drawn, hangdog faces had been made identical by exhaustion and malnutrition, their work-weary eyes never leaving the ground.
Norman reined to a halt, descending from his mount to watch the solemn procession.
He’d made straight for the school after returning from the wilds with Lucian and Allie, not even stopping to stable his mount or deliver his sacks to the storeroom. Now, exhausted and ravenous, all he wanted was to crawl into bed with a loaf of the mill's bread—riddled with sawdust or not.
As the filthy folk passed by, a few glances were sent his way, pleading looks begging him for a word of comfort; forlorn and watchful, lest he’d become the prophet they craved during his few short hours in the wilds.
He could only blink and stare back at them, with shame pressing against the nape of his neck. Even as Sarah passed him, prancing off towards Robert—who stood silhouetted in the kitchen doorway—he remained slumped on his saddle, staring, clinging to the vague hope that his mere presence could buoy up the sullen droves.
He was eventually jarred from his trance by a grating racket.
“What’s all this hush?” shrieked a high-pitched, ancient voice. “At this hour? You should all be home preparin’ for End Day!”
Norman turned to see Agatha standing across the street, waving her cane at the field hands. A hunchbacked old lady with skin like sodden laundry and a face made dull and slack by advanced dementia, she struggled forth. On any other day she was perpetually dazed, always getting lost, but today she seethed with fury.
“It’s our greatest festival, it is. Every year since
the End, we’ve celebrated, and I’ll not have a bit o’ hunger see it forgotten.” She stepped forwards and began clawing at elbows as they brushed past. “It’s tradition. Get your heads up from the dirt and smile! Come on, now, dears. ’Tis End Day! Time to remember, to celebrate—”
“Hush your gums, you senile old coot! We’re not celebrating nothing,” exclaimed a sour-faced youth. His skin immediately drained of colour. It was clear that he had spoken before thinking, on impulse alone.
The comment nonetheless earned him a beating to the back of the head by no less than three nearby elders.
Agatha’s face had fallen. Her grey, cataract-ridden eyes widened. “How dare you gab to me like tha’, you little swine! Tomorrow’s all that connects us to what we’ve lost, all tha’ keeps the Old World alive. Are none of you going to take a stand?”
Some sent embarrassed glances her way. Most became only more fixed on the ground. None answered her. The procession sped along, trying to leave the wilted figure in its wake.
Agatha’s protests continued, diminishing with each repetition, until her shoulders slumped and her cane slowly drooped to the ground, defeated.
Then a resounding, steadfast voice rang out over the cobbles, “Mr Singh, how are the pastry cases coming along?”
Norman whirled to see Alexander standing a few yards away.
He strode across the street and laid his hand upon Agatha’s shoulder, then bent over her and whispered a few words that made her giggle like a little girl, looking adoringly into his eyes. Then he called Sarah and Robert from the kitchens and had them lead her home.
She went without a word, her eyes misty and vacant once more.
Once the trio had disappeared, he planted his knuckles on his hips and stared into the depths of the crowd. His eyes had become shards of flint. “Mr Singh?” he called. “The pastry cases?”
A weathered, white-haired man of Middle-Eastern descent answered with a wavering voice, “I have them ready, sir. Baked them firm yesterday evening—”
“Good man. Best get to it if we’re to see the End Day pies good and ready.”
The man jerked, as though struck. “But…but there’s so little food, there is. I’ve heard nothing of any filling, sir. Everyone says there will not be any feast this year…”
But Alex had turned to another face in the crowd. “Mrs Hadley, is your dear father still happy to have his band play for us tomorrow?”
The procession had slowed to a crawl. Startled, watchful looks were being thrown every which way.
A dirt-streaked, mousy woman appeared to shrink under his gaze. “He’s spoken of nothin’ else for days, Misser Alexander. He and the boys have been keepin’ me and the kids up for weeks with all their practissin! But…to be honest wi’ you, sir, I told them to quit it. Said there wasn’t going to be no celebratin’ this year—”
But Alexander had moved on once more. “Master Ishadore,” he cried, eyeing a passing boy of no more than eight years. “I trust you’ve been gathering mushrooms with your classmates, as I requested?”
The boy tittered at being addressed, but answered with pride, “For the last week. We’ve filled my Dad’s shed full. But, sir…the End Day celebrations are cancelled…aren’t they?”
Hundreds of pairs of eyes now turned from the ground just in time to see Alexander break into a good-natured laugh. “Oh, we’d never let a thing like a shortage in spuds scupper the most important day of the year. Now hop to it, all three of you. There’s work to be done!”
Those he’d spoken to jerked, open-mouthed, and then chorused, “Y-Y-Yes, sir, Mr Cain!”
Mr Singh scuttled off at full pelt, dragging his hoe in his wake and parting the crowd ahead with stifled apologies. Close behind him dashed Hadley and young Ishadore. Their harried cries were soon consumed by the growing noise of the crowd, which had come alive.
Alexander watched them go, and then turned his gaze upon the rest. “That goes for all of you. We’ll not let a poor harvest dampen our fair day, will we?”
A few muttered, “No.”
Alex raised his voice, the wide smile still stretched over his cheeks. “A little hunger isn’t going to keep us from celebrating what we’ve done—all we’ve accomplished.”
A few more, “No.”
“We’ll never bow down to what life throws at us. Not this city.”
Almost everybody, louder, “Never!”
“Are we going to forget the faces of those we’ve lost?”
“NO!” they bellowed.
“Then let’s get to it. Hang the bunting, fetch the cider, slaughter the livestock, ready the china.” He clapped his hands together with a deafening boom. “We’ve got a feast to prepare!”
Eyes lit up like lanterns festooned with oil. Morose sniffing had become wide-eyed glee in a single stride. The crowd rounded the corner buzzing with excited mutterings, half-suppressed giggles and a spring in its step.
Norman had watched the Shepherd wield his flock with mounting awe. This is what they expect of me? he thought. What he expects of me? I could never do that—not in a million years.
And yet, despite his admiration, as soon as they were out of sight and Main Street was deserted, his thoughts turned back to the questionable fruits they had picked. He lurched forwards, leading his mount, and pulled Alexander aside. “Alex, we can’t go ahead with the celebrations.” He reached into the sack nearest his reins and pulled out a handful of half-rotted fruit. “What we found today might not do us any good. We’ll be lucky if it’s fit to feed the horses…” Norman stopped, frowning. “Alex?” He wound down to a halt, his argument forgotten.
Alexander wasn’t listening. He stood stock-still, and the plastic smile had fallen slack on his lips. His eyes were focused not on Norman, or the berry-red slush in his outstretched hand, but on the pylon above their heads.
He followed Alexander’s gaze to see a bird perched upon the lines, silhouetted against the sky. A pigeon’s silhouette. “Robert’s been trying to get rid of them for days, but they keep coming back,” he said, glancing between Alexander and the cooing figure. “What’s the matter?”
Alexander’s mouth bobbed without a sound. His cool composure had dissolved, and Norman thought that, for just a moment, he could see fear in his eyes. “We’re not cancelling anything,” he said. He sounded distant, unlike himself. Then he stammered, “I-I have to go.” His hand had risen to his forehead, shielding his eyes. He suddenly seemed disoriented, almost unsteady on his feet. “There’s some business I have to attend to. I’ll find you later.”
He stumbled away, leaving Norman alone on Main Street, baffled, with the pigeon’s shadow bobbing on the cobbles beside him.
*
By that evening, preparations for the End Day feast were in full swing.
Not a word had been said about cancellation, even after the other scavenging parties had returned, and their own stories of death and destitution had spread to every ear. With the city’s sullen mood finally on the verge of breaking, Norman didn’t have the heart to speak up.
Despite searching for the remainder of the day, he didn’t see Alexander again until the following evening. Nor, in fact, did anybody else.
VIII
The rowboat hit sand with a shuddering jolt, neatly sliding from the sea onto the windswept beach. There, it slumped onto its side, and its three occupants fell with it, rolling into the surf.
All was still for some minutes while the breeze kicked up the shifting dunes and a flock of gulls screeched above, wheeling around to circle the wonder from across the sea.
Then, one of the limp, dehydrated figures stirred. A haggard middle-aged man struggled to lift his head and clap eyes on his surroundings, uttering a breathless cry when he saw what lay before him.
Alien land loomed beyond the beach, primordial cliffs, grey skies, and an endless, unbroken forest.
*
Don swam up from unconsciousness towards sunlight. It was tough, tiring work, like throwing off a lead duvet. Shap
es loomed from fuzzy oblivion: two bodies, one large and one small, and beyond them a blurred tapestry that could have only been land.
A sound escaped his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a scream. They had made it.
Through heavy-lidded eyes he could only vaguely make out Billy’s figure. But he could make out her chest—rising and falling, rising and falling…
She was alive.
Satisfied, he sank back towards blackness for a while, and rested.
At some point he began struggling up the beach on his hands and knees in a series of bursts that he would later only recall in brief flashes. Somehow, he managed to drag Billy with him, and even to return for the old man.
The inevitable happened just after the three of them had passed the tideline. He began coughing. A single throat-clearing jolt was enough to send his lungs into spasm. He hadn’t the energy to do anything but ball his hands into fists and try to keep his airway free of sputum until it had passed.
Afterwards, he laid gasping, tasting blood, not daring to move. A steady pain was pulsing through his abdomen and his head felt fuzzy, his thoughts distant and diffuse. Between the pain and the disorientating roar of the surf, he lost track of time. Staring down at the sand, he was content to remain there for as long as the day lasted.
On several occasions he oscillated between waking thoughts and vacant darkness. The world would settle into focus for a few moments before darkening, pulling away and vanishing.
After an amount of time that could have been anywhere between a few seconds and several hours, he was strong enough to sit up and look around. The boat was where he had left it down by the water, lying on its side. Their things, however, had been unloaded and set in the dry sand, such that they cast a long shadow over his body.
Billy was beside him, cross-legged in the sand, gazing at the land spread out before her and surveying the coast from end to end. When Don moved into a more dignified position, she started. “You were asleep,” she said.
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