“The Watcher, he gave me food. He promised I wouldn’t be collected—I could stay—if I watched for him.”
He knows then. He knows we’re afraid and he’s using it against us. In that moment a pang of understanding stabs at me, but the rage pushes the gentler thoughts away,
“We’re all hungry Jennet. We’re all afraid. Why Ish and Ria? They’re our friends, your friends.”
“They had secrets. They broke the Rule. Now let me go or I’ll tell him about your secrets,” she adds spitefully.
“I haven’t got any secrets,” I say coldly, with an edge of threat, but a sickening lurch of fear makes me loosen my grip.
Jennet scrambles free and moves out of my grasp, pushing back on all fours crablike until she turns over and scrambles away up the lane. I lurch as if to follow.
“Meriall, leave her,” Pascha warns.
I kneel on the ground with her words banging around in my head, ‘I’ll tell him your secrets,’ she’d said, but she couldn’t know about Mother’s books. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. She could make something up to spite me. Just the threat of talking about us to the Watcher feels unbearable.
Pascha grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s find them.”
I scramble after him with the fear still swilling around in my belly. We climb over the stone wall and sneak round to the back of the house.
“There, that’s where they’ll be,” Pascha points to the place where light shines out across the lawn—the root cellar.
We crouch down and run in the shadows until we reach the window. I kneel down beside the light and try to look into the room through the greyed glass. The room seems smudged and uneven, the prisoners and Enforcers just blurred, jolting patches.
“The glass is too dirty. I can’t make them …”
My voice catches in my throat as I hear the first scream and a coldness deep inside my veins seeps over my skin. I fall back, away from the window, punched to the ground by the hideous sound. I look to Pascha. He’s staring through the window, peering hard through the dirt, ignoring the screams I have no stomach for.
“Can you see them?”
“No, not enough to see what’s happening.”
“I don’t want to see. I want to help them.”
“So do I. But we can’t help them now. We’re not prepared—yet.”
I let his last words fall into me, ‘not prepared—yet’.
“No, not yet, but one day we will be. It needs to be soon,” I reply.
And then I hear it—the crunch of a footstep turning on cold stone. I look up startled by the noise—no one—but perhaps the flick of a black cloak and the judder of spiked branches at the corner of the house.
“Pascha! Someone was there, on the path, listening!”
He looks past my shoulder towards the path and grabs my arm. “Let’s get out of here—before they come back.”
We bolt across the wetted grass to the blackness at the bottom of the Watcher’s garden and squat among the cypress and the barbed hawthorns until we dare to run along the village outskirts and make our way back home.
Chapter Seven
Jey’s sob startles me from a difficult sleep. I wake consumed by the memories and emotions of last night. My heart is pounding and my stomach feels hollow. I didn’t change for bed last night and yesterday’s top now feels limp and wet next to my warm skin. Moonlight shines onto our beds through the undrawn curtains and I notice that Jey’s face is wet with tears where she has cried in her sleep.
I sit up and swing my legs out of bed, the metal frame cold to my touch. It bites at me and the sweat drenched top clings to my back, making me wince with discomfort. I sit quietly, my head bowed, subdued within myself, staring at the floorboards between the beds and the thin rug with its faded blown roses. They seem grey in this light. Another muffled sob from Jey breaks into the quietness of the room and I rest my hand on her thin shoulder to quiet her. “Shh, it’s ok. Everything will be alright.”
She seems to settle again.
Barbed cold wraps around me as I walk to the window and wipe away the condensation that blurs my view. Trickles of water speed down the glass and puddle onto the sill. The night is sharp and clear and the moon large and high against the dark sky, surrounded by the glittering speckles of stars. As I stand gazing at it, flashes of last night force their way through the dullness weighing down my mind. I recoil at the brutal scenes and press my hands up against the windows. Thoughts of Ish and Ria are too painful and I push them away and focus again on the scene through the glass. The black moors sit massive in the distance and the bare silhouettes of trees in the garden being blown by the wind are overwhelmed by the vastness of the dark, space-filled sky. The moon is pure in its beauty and I am overcome by an urge to stand beneath it, to open my arms, and be covered in its light.
I turn quietly, not wanting to disturb Jey, make my way out of our room, down the narrow staircase and carefully lift the worn latch of the door into the kitchen. The warmth from the range still fills the room; despite her terror mother has made sure that the fire will be ready for us come morning. I sit on a chair and pull on my moccasins. The sock on my left foot is threadbare at the heel and it feels odd to have just one part of my foot touching the inside of the boot. As I bend forwards to pull on my boots, the heat from the range feels hot on my cold face. It begins to flush with the warmth and the seared strip on my cheek, forgotten until now, starts to throb and prickle. I put my hand gently up to my face, but don’t touch it; I have no idea how bad the burn is.
I step outside, the night is crisp in its coldness, and make my way to the back of the house, carefully following the stone slabs that make up the side path and divide the land at the back down the middle. This is where we stand to hang out the washing on a good day. The rest is given over to raspberry canes, currant bushes and neat rectangular vegetable beds. Before the wars, the garden would probably have been laid to grass with flowers in beds at the sides. That seems odd to me; we need every inch of our land to work for us.
I stand on the path and look to the moon; its bright circle of shining light always draws me to wonder at its beauty. As I gaze up, all thoughts and fears leave me. Instead, I am filled with awe. Every cell in my body is suffused with delight and amazement and understanding of the vastness of everything that is out there. This is not all there is. Life can be different. I take a breath that pulls the cold, clear air down to the bottom of my lungs and open my arms to the moon, to the stars, to the galaxies, and let their light cover me. I am awakened and renewed as if their light has given me strength.
The clanging of the first bell for Morning Assembly feels like a slap and pushes me back to reality and I return to the warmth of the kitchen. As I push open the heavy front door, Mother is stepping from the stairs into the room.
“Meriall! What are you doing?” Her tone is sharp, annoyed. She didn’t expect me there and I’ve given her a shock,
“I’m sorry. I just needed ... I felt trapped ... needed some fresh air.”
“You’re shaking and, my goodness, but you’re cold and wet! Get those clothes off. I’ll get you some water” I instinctively obey.
As I undress, Mother fills a bowl with water from the kettle she always keeps warming on the range and puts it on the table along with a bar of soap and a small square of rough fabric to use as a flannel. She hands me a towel. It is rough, but clean and warm and I wrap it around my naked body.
“You’ll feel better once you’ve had a wash; nice and fresh,” she says with authority.
I pick up the flannel and drop it into the bowl and lather it with soap. If I am quick, the warmth from the water will stay in the flannel whilst I wash away the sweat and the cold. I work quickly, pushing the flannel over my shoulders, chest and neck, then down my arms and legs and to my feet. It feels refreshing and the clean water on my skin quickly evaporates as I stand in front of the range. Finally, I open the towel, bending forward to stop it dropping off my back and clean my mid-riff,
around my breasts and between my legs.
“There are clean knickers and socks on the table and a warm top and jeans hanging on the airer,” Mother explains, the sharpness in her voice replaced with soft caring.
I pull the clothes onto my body, comforted and grateful. Mother was right; I do feel better. Upstairs I hear Jey moving about.
“Jey cried in her sleep.”
“Yes, we’re all suffering,” is her tight, subdued response.
She takes a deep breath and moves towards the kitchen sink to pour away the bowl of used and soapy water.
Jey steps into the kitchen as I sip warmed goat’s milk sweetened with honey, pale and morose, just as the second bell for Assembly rings out. She sits and picks up her mug of sweetened milk whilst Mother opens the heavy curtains letting a grey light creep into the kitchen, the threat of punishment for lateness unheeded today.
“Meriall—the burn on your face—it looks painful,” Jey says with concern.
Mother looks across at me and the sharp intake of breath tells me that it must be bad. I reach for the mirror that sits on the windowsill in front of the sink and hold it up to catch the light. It’s difficult to see, but an angry red and blistered scorch mark runs vertically down my face from the top of my cheek to my jaw where it caught the edge of the range. I touch the skin next to it gently. It feels hot.
“Don’t touch it love. You don’t want to get it infected. I’ll get the aloe.” Mother reaches for what she calls her ‘little miracle worker’, an ancient aloe plant she found when we came to the village and has nurtured for the past years. She picks up her sharpest knife from the kitchen drawer and slices off the tip of a leaf. A clear gel-like liquid seeps out and sits on the wounded edge of the plant. This, she says, is what we need. Mother holds my chin in her left hand and with the right holds the slice of leaf and dabs globules of the soothing liquid onto my burned skin.
The third bell for Assembly rings, finally urging us into action, and we join the other families on their daily walk to the School Room. I cannot shake the dread, and wonder, listening to the solemn quiet, seeing the arms grasped tight, if the other men and women walking the lane feel the same. They must all know about Ish and his family by now.
In the room Mother hands our Contribution of four apples to the Watcher’s Wife and then guides us to a row at the back where we stand close and silent. She threads her arm through mine and pulls me to her. It’s quiet in the room but the tension is enormous. People are tight lipped, their faces hard and strained as they wait for the Watcher to make his entrance, and for news of Ish and Ria, and their parents.
The heavy side door opens and every eye in the room follows him to the lectern.
“I have been disappointed.” His voice is strong, loud, and indignant. He looks out over the villagers. “The Elect have been disappointed.” Again a pause whilst his eyes search us out. “There are those among you who have disobeyed the Rule; who have subverted Primitive teachings; and who have undermined The Primitive Way.” A ripple of anxiety spreads through the villagers. “We have taught you The Way to guide you, to keep you from harm, to show you the right way to live your lives. There are those who want to keep you from that path and lead you into harm, but we are here to protect you and it is my duty as the Watcher to seek out and destroy those who would do you harm; to cut off at the root such evil so that it cannot grow.”
He draws breath, expanding his chest and squaring his shoulders, and raises his right hand. “It grieves me that we have such traitors among us but they will not succeed.” He thumps the clenched hand down onto the lectern. “They will not lead you away from the right path.” He thumps again. “They will not,” and he thumps it down yet again, “be allowed to harm you.”
He motions to one of his men standing at the back near the door that leads to the School House with a self-justified impatience. The guard opens the door and beckons to someone beyond. Mother grips my arm tighter and Jey squeezes my hand. I close my eyes and take a deep breath praying that it is not Ish and Ria who will be there in front of me when I open them again. Jey’s sob tells me that it is.
A buzz of whispered voices and sharp intakes of breath fills the room. On the platform, behind the Watcher, our friends stand hobbled and hand-tied, made mute by cloth pulled between their teeth and tied tight around their heads. I look at them intently. They’re exhausted, shoulders slumped, heads bowed. Ish and Ria seem to be unharmed but the same is not true of their parents. I can hardly bear to look at them. They are spattered and stained with browning blood and the evidence of a truly terrible night has been punched onto their faces. Maz’s eyes are both swollen and blackening and there’s a cut above his right eye that has bled down his cheek. His nose looks broken. Noor’s black hair looks matted with blood and her lips are split and swollen and a dark bruise is spreading across her left cheek. She is barely able to stand. Both are pushed forward closer to the front of the platform.
“These are the traitors whose lies will hurt us all if they are not stopped.” The Watcher continues, jabbing a pointed finger towards the pair. “This man and this woman have been caught and found guilty of spreading the lies of a dangerous and outlawed religion.” He stares out across the room. “They are disbelievers and they have been teaching their children the wrong way.” He shakes the lectern with fury as though he himself has been insulted. “They have been spreading their lies of unbelief and leading their own flesh and blood down a path to destruction. We have caught them and we can put right their wrongs.” His marked face twists into a gloating smile. “There is only one way, there is only one religion. Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect.”
“Thanks be to the Elect.”
The response from the School Room is mixed; some voices sound fervent whilst others are high pitched, hysterical and strained, yet others are reticent and mumbled. There doesn’t seem to be agreement and it is this that makes our village a dangerous place to have an opinion, belief, or thought, other than what is taught.
“You are all my children and it saddens me when you stray,” he says with mock hurt, “but a father who spares the rod spoils the child and so their crime must be punished.” He becomes angry again and thumps his hand on the lectern for the final time. “This will take place at noon today on The Green. Your presence is required.”
Ish becomes agitated and tries to shout, but it is impossible to hear him through the gag. A guard punches him in the back.
“Don’t damage him!” the Watcher hisses as Ish jerks in pain. He motions to his men and the prisoners are herded back through the door. “You are dismissed.”
I stand, unable to move. Jey and Mother are stiff with emotion too. I want to shout at him to let them go, scream that he is wrong, and tell him The Primitive Way is evil, but fear stops me; they would accuse me too.
The door outside is opened and the villagers begin to filter out, talking in hushed whispers as they walk away. Jey tugs at my hand and I follow her out.
“Let’s get home,” she says, her voice broken with pain.
The hours between First Assembly and the punishment are interminable. I check over and over again to see how high the sun is in the sky. Mother puts me to work collecting wood to put in the smoker and skinning the rabbit I’d brought home yesterday. She has butchered the pig I killed and now wants to put it in the smoker so that its flesh will feed us over the coming winter months.
After I’ve collected the wood I lay the rabbit out on the kitchen table, holding its head towards me. Snaring the rabbit has left the fur soft and undamaged. I stroke it gently from its head to its legs, respectfully, lovingly. Thank you. Mother can have the pelt to add to the growing patchwork of fur that lines her coat. With my skinning knife I make a slit from the rabbit’s sternum straight down its belly, making sure I don’t pierce the guts. I separate the fur then split the belly sack open, pull out the guts and check the condition of the liver and the kidneys for any lumps or patches of white. They look clean and healthy and I cut th
em out and put them in a bowl ready for Mother to prepare. I make cuts along the legs to its paws and another from its sternum to its chin then remove the skin in one piece, gently scraping at the membrane with the sharpest edge of my knife to separate the body from the fur. I lay the rabbit in the large glass dish that Mother has put out for me and then set about cleaning down the table, pouring boiling water over the wood and scrubbing it with the soap I found at Hawdale yesterday.
“It’s time Meriall.”
Mother doesn’t need to explain. I know what she means: it is time to go to The Green.
Chapter Eight
As I step out of the house and onto the stone path, the acrid waft from the smoker and the light filtering through the redness of the last leaves of autumn come together to create a perfect moment of sharp, crisp and painful memory. Nathaniel. They had taken him in the autumn. The memory is raw—overwhelming—and I grab hold of the door frame to steady myself, pressing my other hand against my stomach.
“Meriall, are you alright?” Mother asks, concern in her voice.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
I straighten, not wanting to worry her, and begin the dreadful walk to The Green.
Punches of emotion overpower me and, although I am walking with Jey and Mother, I am not present with them. The images of Nate’s Collection are so vivid that I am lost and can’t decipher whether they, or the walk to The Green, are my reality.
I walk up the path away from the house, kick at the red and gold autumn leaves, and hear a woman shout. Other women and men shout too. The noise is coming from down the lane, towards the School House. At first I think that I must have missed the bell for Second Assembly. As the thought passes through my mind, my body reacts with a sudden sinking pain in my guts and resistance in my ribs as I take a breath. Confusion. I expect to see the villagers moving as one into the School Room, shoulders slumped and heads bowed with the weight of worry and unhappiness. Instead, the crowd isn’t moving; it fills and blocks the crossroads where the lane turns to lead out of the village and where the School House keeps watch. Instead of a subdued resignation the crowd is unsteady—lurching—loud.
Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) Page 5