Chapter Four
Walking back across the moors, the rucksack heavy on my back, the image of the pile is stuck in my head. The horror of the moment has triggered memories of Tristan and his death and the day they collected Nate. An angry sadness is digging deep into my stomach and I want to scream, scream out as loudly as I can at the trees, the grass, and the rocks all around me. Most of all I want to scream in the face of the Watcher; to make him feel my anger; to make him afraid this time. Instead, I keep my head low and jog across the field towards the stone houses and buildings of our village. I bite my bottom lip, make fists around the straps of the rucksack and I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, forcing myself to stay in control.
A flicker of movement ahead and someone is scurrying from the side door of the School House—the Watcher’s house. It’s not Elison or Patrick, the girl and boy he uses as servants, or one of his thugs. I frown and then squint to try to see better who it is. It’s a girl. Slender, no skinny, with dark brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her jeans are loose and even the thick woollen jumper she’s wearing can’t hide how thin she is. It looks to me like Jennet but I have to be sure. I nudge Pascha with my elbow, “Pascha! Is that Jennet? Coming out of the Watcher’s house?”
“Hey, yes, it is! I wonder what she’s doing there?” he asks, with a hard edge to his voice.
I know from his frown that he shares my thoughts; no one can be trusted since the Watcher came. My stomach knots. Is Jennet an informer? I watch as she hurries away from the School House and joins the flow of villagers into the School Room for Second Assembly.
We’re back from the village without much time to spare and the thought of being late jolts me into action.
“We’re nearly late! Come on!”
I stash my rucksack behind the stone wall next to the school house and walk in with the others. Daylight fills the room and dust eddies in the warm sunlight that spills through the windows. Heat from the log burner has taken the chill from the air and gives off a warm orange glow, but even that brightness can’t stop the darkness descending as I walk through the doors. Walking back into the room reminds me that it had once been a happy place: a village school room with bookcases, boxes of toys, and small tables covered in pots of pencils and crayons. The walls had been full of colour and covered in maps, letters, numbers and joyful paintings of erupting volcanoes, parrots, twirling snails and a dozen other random things. The village mothers had taught us. It wasn’t an official school because after the war there was no one left to make you go to school, but they knew we had to keep on learning.
I walk towards the back of the room and join the other villagers. They stand in rows waiting for Assembly to begin; waiting for the reading from the damned ‘Book’. Do the others feel the same? Do they hate the Primitives as much as I do? Five over-large pictures of the Founding Fathers sit dark and menacing against the white walls. I know each face, each glowering, arrogant scowl intimately. One of them brings me more fear than the rest. The one with Kendrick Baxter painted beneath the hard expression. He looks no different from the others yet he is the one I fear the most. It is ridiculous, I know, but it feels as though their eyes are boring into me, trying to know my thoughts. I take a deep breath to ward off the vulnerability this brings. They cannot know what I am thinking. That is impossible. It would also be dangerous.
Emett’s cough breaks into my thoughts. I sigh in frustration; it was stupid to think we could find medicine to help her. She needs a doctor and real medicine, but there are no doctors and what medicine is left was made before the wars and is old or useless. One of the village mothers, Mrs Drayton, makes herbal mixtures but Emett’s cough, I am sure, needs more than one of her concoctions. Mother sent me to her once when Jey had headaches and a fever. There was a gentle softness about her and I remember feeling happy and calm as she talked to me whilst she made the healing mixture of herbs. Her dark auburn hair was run through with grey, her skin a fading honey, and her flecked hazel eyes were surrounded by lines of age, but she was beautiful to me. She gave me an apple and I’d sat at her scrubbed table, my legs dangling from the kitchen chair, talking and listening and eating. I ate the entire apple, even the pips because they tasted like almonds, but she’d said no, that was the cyanide I could taste, but it was ok because just a few wouldn’t hurt. I’d have to eat hundreds of pips for them to poison me.
I notice Jennet. She is sitting a row in front of me and to my right, a slight flush stains her cheeks and she rubs the fabric of her sleeve nervously between her fingers. What have you told him? Jennet was one of us. She was on our side; until today. Now she is a threat, one of them, someone to be feared. The clang of the door latch and the heavy-footed entrance of the Watcher demands my attention. We go through the same ritual of counting and preaching and then the Watcher makes his monthly demand.
“Tomorrow, at First Assembly, you must make the Contribution.”
His large hands are wrapped firmly around the edges of the tall lectern as he looks out across the room. He leans forward, angular and callous, his hard face framed by the black skullcap and ruffled white collar that sits stiff beneath his chin. His cutting blue eyes seek us out and he stares directly into the eyes of as many villagers as he can, his threat clear.
“Failure to please will not be tolerated. Thanks be to the Elect.”
He raises his hand and flicks dismissively to end Assembly, turns abruptly, long black cloak sweeping after him, irritating whorls of dust from the wooden floor, and walks back through the heavy door held open by the Wife. She looks drawn and sad and I wonder, not for the first time, what kind of privilege it is to be a Wife.
“Very dramatic!” Pascha seethes in a hushed whisper. “Let’s get outside.”
I nod to Jey and to Mother to signal my goodbye and we walk out of the School Room. As we pass through the door, my arm brushes up against his and a shock, like sharp pin pricks, ripples through me. I bite my lip. I can’t feel this! We step aside from the path and onto the grass outside, away from the stream of villagers leaving the room, and stand close together next to the cold stone wall. We wait quietly until the last villager leaves. When the doors finally close Pascha leans in towards me. The radiating warmth of his body strokes my cheek and I am suddenly aware of how small I am next to him, of how big he has become, how much I need his protection. The intensity of emotion scares me and although I desperately want to be closer I pull away. Does he feel this way too?
His voice breaks up my thoughts. “What are you going to give?”
“Give?”
He has caught me off guard, my thoughts scattered.
“Give, Merry! What are you going to give the Watcher? What Contribution are you going to make?” he asks laughing. “Away with the fairies again I see.”
I jab his side with my elbow.
The stone shelves of our cellar hold a meagre collection of root vegetables, preserved summer fruits, honey from mother’s bees, and ten tins of home-canned meat; rabbits and squirrels I caught earlier in the year, and two crates of apples wrapped in dried grass. We have the pig, but he can’t have that.
“We have some apples in the store. We can give those. What about you?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We’re going to struggle to get through the winter as it is.”
Winter is a time of real hardship in the village and if there’s not enough food stocked up then people starve. The year before last was the worst. Winter came early and left late and four of the village elders died. Every day the hunger gnawed at my stomach. Some days it would hurt so badly I just wanted to stay in bed curled up tight beneath my blankets. January came and the snow was thick and in desperation two men broke into the Watcher’s house to steal some food. Steal back their food. They’d been caught and their punishment had been immediate. The Watcher had no mercy. Impatient, and not willing to wait until the executioner could get through the deep snow, he ordered his thugs to march them to the gallows on the village green. He watched with a
smile from an upstairs window as the men struggled with their last breath.
I remember my traps. “Come with me then. I’m going to check the traps I set yesterday and after that we can hunt for squirrel,” I suggest, hopeful that he will agree. “We can give him what we catch.”
I arrange to meet him at the edge of the village in ten minutes and take my rucksack back to the cottage. I cannot wait to share what I found at the hamlet with mother and Jey, but that small happiness will have to wait until later. Right now, I am desperate for food and anxious to get to the forest, to be with Pascha again. The stew still sits atop the range and smells good as I lift the lid off the pot. It is glutinous and warm. Each mouthful eases the ache in my stomach and I could easily finish every scraping from the pot, but that would mean Jey or Mother going without so, on the fifth spoonful, I force myself to stop and grab my leather pouch, knife, and killing stick.
As I step out of the cottage door, the brightness of the morning sun is giving way to a greyed out sky, a fog is falling onto the moors again and the cold is creeping in. I zip up my jacket against the damp air and walk quickly towards Pascha who is waiting next to the standing stone that marks the village boundary. I look at him intently as he scuffs the ground with his shoe. He has the same build and strength of his father, but his skin is a lighter tan and his eyes are green like his mother’s whilst his hair, a wiry, curly brown-blond, is a mixture of the two. He looks up and smiles. I quickly look away and hope he doesn’t realise I’ve been devouring him with my eyes. I smile back trying not to let my feelings show, tighten my grip on my killing stick, and rub my thumb on the notch where Nate had sawn off a branch when he’d made it. The killing end is stained brown with dried blood, but where I’ve cut away the wood to a sharpened point it is yellow and clean. The day is darkening; we won’t have much time.
“Let’s cut across the fields. The light will fade quicker today with the fog that’s coming in so we’d best not go too far into the woods.”
We agree and climb up over the stone wall that separates the lane from the field and begin jogging across the grass. It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the edge and we walk deeper into the forest for another ten before we get to my first trap. The tealer has been knocked over and the snare is empty. I have only set two on my line so the next one is the last chance for a catch today. I re-set the snare and walk to the next trap. I spot the trampled undergrowth first, where the rabbits run to and fro, and then the grey and white fur of my catch. The rabbit lays on its side, its head held fast in the noose of the snare. It’s a good size and will feed us for a few days. If we don’t find any squirrels Pascha can use it as his Contribution. I pick up the lifeless body, unhook it from the wire noose, and stuff it into my leather hunting pouch. We walk deeper into the woods.
Pascha suddenly runs ahead of me. “A squirrel! It went down there.” He points to a pile of fallen branches. A small hole has been burrowed down beneath the bottom branch. “Quick, put your hand over the hole. I’ll check it didn’t get out round the back.”
I put my hand over the entrance to the hole whilst Pascha checks the other side of the logs for any exit holes. There are none. “Pascha, I can see him in there. Come round here and take my place.”
We swap places and I crouch down and hold my killing stick with my right hand, its sharp end is pointing at the hole and its blunt end reaches above my shoulder. I motion for Pascha to move his hand away, replace it with mine, and shuffle into position, poised, ready. As Pascha moves his hand I catch a glimpse of the squirrel and stab into the hole. The resistance of the squirrel’s body pushes against the stick.
“I have him,” I whisper, triumphant.
It is over in seconds and I bring the speared, still twitching body out of the hole and put it into my pouch along with the dead rabbit.
Pascha is crouching next to me, his knee touching the side of my leg. He lays his arm across my back and pats my shoulder. A quiet has fallen between us and he has dropped his head slightly. It seems like an age that we sit beneath the woodland trees among the fallen autumn leaves, our boots dark with wet, before he finally speaks. “Dad—Tristan—would have been proud of you Merry.”
I can’t look at him and hide the tears stinging my eyes. My heart thuds like it wants to burst. We had all loved Tristan. When they killed him they killed something in all of us.
“Pascha, I ...” words stick in my throat. I try again, “I miss him” is all I can get out, all I can let myself say, the emotion is raw and the sense of loss overwhelming.
It’s not just about Tristan, it’s about Nate, it’s about us all, we’ve lost everything and most days it seems we’ve lost our future too.
“If he’d lived he would have fought for us. He hated them; he knew how dangerous they were. He would have killed them for taking Edie,” Pascha’s voice is thick with emotion and my heart burns as flashes of Edie, his sister, sear across my mind.
“Mother told me. She said he hated their cruelty and could see they wanted to take control of us. I wish he was here now. He wouldn’t let them take us,” is my passionate reply.
“You have me; I’m here.” Pascha’s voice is not more than a whisper and as he gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze I lean into him, my head resting on his chest. We crouch together, taking comfort from each other in the stillness of the forest, and for a few precious minutes the fear and anxiety sit quiet within me.
The moment passes.
Pascha grabs my hand and pulls me up. As we stand, my killing stick falls to the ground and he reaches out to catch it, his shirt sleeve rising to reveal a mark on his wrist.
“What’s that?” I ask, squinting at the black smudge.
“What’s what?” he asks, confused.
“That mark on your wrist!”
I point at his arm. He pulls it away abruptly, covering his wrist with his coat sleeve.
“Let me see! What is it?”
“It’s just a tattoo.”
“A tattoo! I thought it was only the Primitives who used those!”
“Used them?”
“Yes, to brand their women, mark them out as possessions—like the Watcher’s Wife—the circle on her chin.”
“Hah! Well, I wouldn’t have one of those would I?”
“What do you have then?”
He slowly puts his arm out and pulls up his sleeve showing me the tattoo. I grab his wrist and pull it closer. It is black and small and crude but obviously an arrow. I catch my breath. An arrow! A tiny arrow that screams to me. I know why he has it. My head is full of questions and worry. If they see it! Fletcher, a maker of arrows, Tristan’s surname. Tristan Fletcher, Pascha’s father, burned alive for sedition and rebellion. The ash tree where he still hangs is scratched with arrows at its base, carved there as a sign of respect and solidarity and resistance.
“Pascha, if they know, if they know what it means, they’ll beat you or worse.”
He yanks his arm out of my grip and pulls down his sleeve.
“They won’t see it,” he says determined.
“Has anyone else seen it?” I ask with concern.
“No. There’s no one I trust,” he replies grimly.
Silence falls between us but my heart speaks to him. There’s me. I’m the one you can trust.
Chapter Five
It’s twilight as we reach the village. The houses sit like dark blocks against the sky, broken only by an occasional soft yellow slit; the glow from an oil lamp escaping through gaps in the drawn curtains of a few cottage windows. Our cottage sits in darkness. This is normal. Oil is scarce and Mother is very careful, lighting the lamps only on occasion and only when there is not even a glimmer of light left in the house. As I walk up the stone slabs of the pathway the curtains remain drawn. In the kitchen, Jey is pulling clothes from the airer, stacking them in a neat pile on the table whilst Mother is busy feeding the range with logs.
“Meriall you’re back. Sit down love. How went the day? Did your traps hold fruit?” Moth
er asks, the relief of my return evident in her voice.
I drop my hunting pouch onto the table and pull out the rabbit, legs first, in reply.
“Don’t get that near the clothes!” Jey scolds, pulling the stack of warm clothes away from its dangling body.
“Well, you’ll be glad of its fur when it’s sewn into your jacket.” I say, laughing.
Mother looks to me, squinting through the dinge. “It’s time to light the lamp Jey, I can barely see what Merry’s holding.”
Merry! She must be in a lighter mood today. She only calls me Merry when the sadness she lives in lifts a little.
“No, wait! I’ll open the door, that’ll help,” she says, frugalness overriding her desire to see clearly.
“It’s a rabbit. A big fat rabbit to fill our bellies.” I say, dangling it closer to her face before laying it to rest on the counter next to the sink.
She takes a step back in mock disgust and grabs a cloth from the peg next to the range then opens the heavy fire pit door; heat and an orange glow fills the room. The glow doesn’t spread far and the corners of the kitchen sit in darkness still, but there’s enough light for us to eat by and the warmth is comforting. This is how we spend most of our evenings, sitting in the darkness, on our mismatched kitchen chairs, enjoying the warm glow of the oven’s open door. Often, after Third Assembly, I pull up a footstool, take off my moccasins, rest my feet and sit there enjoying the heat soothe over my skin. Sometimes, we three sit and chat and rest and eventually fall asleep until the fire burns so low that the cold begins to nip. Then Mother will put more logs on the fire, to keep it alive for morning, and shoo us up to our cold beds.
Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) Page 3