Elected (The Elected Series Book 1)

by Rori Shay

  “No, Aloy,” my mother said. I remember her voice was soft like an old blanket. Comfortable, but worn out. “These baskets are for all the men who lost wives this week.”

  There were eight baskets.

  I shuddered at the memory and then looked back at the haughty rooster strutting through his cage.

  “It’s not easy for him anymore, either,” I say, pointing to the rooster. “There aren’t any more chickens for him to mate with.”

  “Correct,” says Maran, looking over my shoulder. “He’s the last one. Even his parents died out a few years ago.”

  We walk along the dirt pathway of the sanctuary, my father and I pointing out the strange animals we haven’t seen since we were here the last time. There’s a parrot almost identical to the one I own. And a wolf. It looks like one of the dogs my parents keep with the horses, but this animal has grey fur and razor sharp teeth. It’s agitated at our passage, so we walk by quickly.

  I can’t help but look for Griffin, thinking he’ll be here helping his father. Finally, when I don’t see him at all, I ask Maran.

  “He’s not around today,” Maran says, avoiding my gaze. “Got a black eye play-fencing in one of the neighborhood matches. He’s at the doctor’s getting it looked at.”

  This seems strange to me. I can picture Griffin getting cut from fencing but not receiving a black eye from it.

  We wave goodbye to Maran and start on the path back to our house. Along the way, I can’t help peering into the windows of the doctor’s house to catch a glimpse of Griffin, but I see nothing behind the drawn shades.

  Then, like time is proceeding faster than usual, my eighteenth birthday is upon us.

  Three short days later, my parents and I arrive at the day we’ve been planning as long as I can remember. I almost want to get it over with, as waiting for this night has worried me for too long already. But then again, I’m hoping the day will go as slowly, so I can linger with my parents for as long as possible.

  We’re sequestered together in an inner room of our house. We spend the entire night together with the rest of the village and our maids in repose. As is ritual, we are to have an evening devoid of distraction. No matter what else is happening in our country, tonight no one will come to us with their problems.

  I lie with my head in my mother’s lap as she lightly circles her fingers through my hair. I cannot believe she is allowing this comforting exchange, but I figure she doesn’t have to worry about pretenses anymore. I know she’s often wanted to nurture me but held herself back, thinking it would make me more girlish than I already am. Now it’s her last chance to treat me like her daughter. My father sits across the room at a table, drinking a clear liquid. He looks less ferocious tonight than usual.

  We’ve already gone through almost the entire list of questions I’d saved for this evening:

  How do you know if an accused is truly guilty?

  What do you do with the bodies of these people? Do they get buried along with our other townspeople or are they separated?

  How do you apportion out the most highly demanded resources?

  How are Vienne and I supposed to bear a child together?

  My parents seem exhausted at my litany of questions, but still they answer each one in intricate detail, giving me everything they know. The only thing they don’t answer adequately is the question about bearing children. When I ask, Apa puts his hand to his mouth and Ama looks away. I don’t think they know the answer. “Vienne will think of something,” my mother says.

  Then she passes me the key to our vault—the one holding the last of the past’s miraculous medicines. I take the ring and thread it onto a cord around my neck, pulling the key underneath my shirt.

  “Aloy,” she says, “I know you have sympathy for the people, but do keep the medicine for your family.” It’s like she knows I’ve given one of the purple pills away. “We don’t horde the pills to be cruel. We do it because the Elected Accord states only the reigning family may take the cure. There’s a finite amount of pills left. If those run out and the Elected dies before a full term, anarchy will ensue. The Accords will no longer apply. We need the pills to last until the planet’s environment is strong once again and the Accords are not as necessary.” In all the years I’ve heard my parents’ advice, this is the first time Ama’s mentioned anything about a future that didn’t include the Accords. I just nod my head, too stunned to say a word.

  My father clears his throat like he’s about to add something but is having a hard time with it.

  “What, Apa?” I say, sitting up from my mother’s touch.

  “Aloy. We... I... am sorry.” He stops and looks down at his hands. “This wasn’t ever supposed to be your burden.”

  He’s never before apologized for forcing me into the Elected role. He’s always been steadfast to a fault. Even when I once asked him why he doesn’t even hear out the Technology Faction’s thoughts, my father merely scoffed and said, “Listening to idiocy is futile.” He looks down at the floor now, a rare moment of regret passing over his face.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I say. “It wasn’t your choice. It was Evan’s.”

  His name is like a bell ringing. It drowns out everything else in the room. Evan. The real Elected. The one who was supposed to take this post years ago. We all wonder where he is. If he’s still alive.

  “Let’s not think about that right now, shall we?” my mother says. My father and I both look away, wanting to say more but knowing it’ll upset Ama. Neither of us wants to do that tonight. So there will be words left unsaid. I resign myself to that fact.

  “Where will you go?” I ask. If I cannot talk about Evan, I will at least broach this next controversial topic.

  My mother says, “What does it matter? We will never come back. And you will never come to find us.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “But at least tell me what your plans are.”

  “Aloy, no,” starts my mother again, but my father breaks in.

  “Mid Country.”

  What used to be the United States of America, is now divided into three countries. I picture the old United States map with the top and bottom shaved off. The coldest and hottest regions became uninhabitable long before the full eco-crisis struck. Then I picture the country with its outermost states peeled away—land closest to the oceans that got flooded. I imagine what’s left dissected into three small pieces.

  East Country is what remains of the states Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, and the former capital, Washington, DC. Of the three countries dividing our continent, ours is the only one with land bordering water. Because of the Chesapeake Bay’s unique shape, we still have a small coast unmarred by oil spillage.

  Then there’s Mid Country, encompassing part of Maryland and what used to be Virginia to Kansas. The bottom of their land is Arkansas and the top is Iowa. Our most tenacious and previously disputed border with Mid Country is a small mountain about seventeen miles away from the White House. The Appalachians make up the rest of the border.

  Last, there’s West Country, which was almost unbearably hot even back when former leaders split up the country. That land consisted of Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming. I’m not sure if that country is even in existence anymore.

  That’s it for the North American continent. What used to be Mexico and Canada are no more. The land remains, but it grew respectively too hot and too cold to sustain life comfortably.

  I shake my head of these images and try to focus on the fact my parents are heading for the great unknown Mid Country. I turn suddenly to Apa, surprised he’s given me any hint of their plans at all.

  “Are they expecting you?” I ask, incredulous. I always thought my mother and father would ride out quietly into the middle of nowhere, living on their own for the rest of their lives in the outskirts of East Country. I never thought they’d try to reach another country.

  “Of course not,” says my father.

  My mother sighs. “We will ride through the hills, let the ho
rses go when we’re close to Mid, and walk the rest of the way in. Mid’s people won’t know who we are.”

  No one in East Country has ever climbed the border hill to its peak. It’s only a mile up, so it’s easily scalable. But climbing the hill, even to sneak a glimpse at Mid Country, is punishable by death. It violates the Accords’ intent for isolation. So, our people stay firmly rooted at the foot of the hill on our side of the border. What my parents speak of now isn’t only risky, it signifies their abandonment of East Country’s laws.

  “But what will you say?” I ask with alarm. “Won’t Mid question who you are?”

  “We don’t know,” says Apa. “Maybe their society is different from ours. Maybe they don’t keep track of their people. Maybe there are so many people, we’ll just blend in.”

  “And if we can’t blend in,” Ama continues, “we will say we’ve lost our memory because of the radiation poisoning. Don’t worry, Aloy. We won’t say anything about East Country. We will keep the isolation intact.”

  “I’m not worried about that!” My voice is panicked. “I’m worried they’ll harm you. They won’t know who you are. You’ll be intruders!”

  “Nonsense,” says my father. “We’ll be fine. Last thing you need is to worry about us!”

  “You shouldn’t have told her,” Ama says. “Now she’ll be thinking of it!” Her voice is high.

  They’re starting to fight, and that’s the last thing I need to worry about. I don’t want to look back on my last night with them and picture them arguing. So I raise my hands up in defeat, hoping to quell the situation.

  “Fine, fine,” I say. “I won’t think about it. You’re right. You’ll be fine.”

  But before I can truly let the words settle over me, I realize I’m crying. Tears are streaming down my face, and for the first time I do absolutely nothing to stop them. My mother comes to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and up to my face. She leans into me, trying to soothe but for once not trying to stop my actual tears. My parents let them flow.

  I splutter, “You can’t leave, you just... can’t!”

  Finally, my father walks to where Ama and I are sitting. He squats down in front of me so we’re eye to eye.

  He looks at me squarely, “We can. You’re ready. My father left me when I was your age too. I survived. You will too.”

  I know he’s right, so I don’t try to argue. His words are solemn but assured. I sniff, trying to be as strong as he thinks I am.

  He gets up again and fetches something from the corner of the room.

  I look up to see he’s holding a ratty looking toy out to me. It’s my old baby doll they took from me when I was four.

  “I was hard on you,” he says.

  I grasp the doll by the arms and hug it close to my stomach, hoping to feel an echo of the comfort it gave me in childhood.

  His voice grows quieter. “Perhaps too hard.”

  My mother says, “We did what we thought was best. For you. For this family. For the country.”

  “I know,” I say. “I understood.”

  My mother and father both grasp my hands in theirs. “We always hoped you did.”

  We stay like that, hands clutched together and silent for what seems like hours. I don’t know if they’ve fallen asleep, my mother next to me, her body leaning heavily upon mine. Or my father in front of me, seated on a high-backed chair with his eyes closed. But I haven’t slept. I’ve looked at them closely, trying to memorize the rise of my mother’s forehead, wrinkling now that I see it up close. And my father’s white hair, thinning on the top, a symptom of age I know our people wish they could all achieve.

  When I finally see the sun starting to rise, I gently touch each of my parents. They stir and stare at me kindly, thinking they’ve only fallen asleep for a few minutes. I let them keep this illusion and stare back at them. When the knock comes at our door, it still seems too soon. But my father gets up to answer the door.

  It’s Tomlin. “You have just five more minutes. The people are lined up,” he says. His eyes are downcast, sorry for interrupting our last moments.

  “Thank you. We will be out shortly,” says my father, his voice thick with emotion. The “thank you” seems to be for more than just this reminder of time.

  The door closes again, and my mother is still attached to my side, hugging me hard. “You will make such a good leader,” she says, wiping tears from her lashes.

  “We are proud of you,” my father says. “Lead with a kind heart. But lead. Don’t forget that, my child.”

  I nod, not able to get any words out of my throat. It’s closing up.

  I watch as my father grabs up a small bag. In it I know are the essentials: a water pouch, food to sustain them for a few days, and a blanket. One thing left out are the purple pills. They don’t need them anymore. They will no longer be part of the Elected family.

  My mother wraps a traveling cloak around her shoulders. It’s lined with wool. They’ll need the warmth, heading out into the unknown.

  We walk out of the room together, holding hands in a small line, me in the middle. The maids and other help line the corridors. This is custom. People will line my parents’ walk to the front of the house and will form a tight line all along my parents’ path into the hills. For as many people as we have in our country, that is how long the line will extend on either side of my parents’ path. Arms will be linked together, in solidarity with my parents but also as a sort of fence, knotted together to prevent my parents from veering back into our country. The linked arms signify my parents must leave. As much as this custom is for my parents, it’s a pact of solidarity for me too. It signifies the people’s recognition that my parents’ time is over. That I am the next Elected.

  We mount horses and ride forward together, my parents in front of me, side by side, with me behind. My parents stop in front of Tomlin and bow their heads. He returns the gesture, locking eyes with my father.

  Without my father saying anything, Tomlin promises, “I will take care of him.”

  My father doesn’t utter a word. I wonder if this is custom too or if he’s trying to control his own sadness—if he fears the moment he tries to talk, his voice will crack. He gives Tomlin a small smile and another nod.

  We ride for approximately an hour at a ceremoniously slow pace. That is all it takes to ride past the entirety of our people. As we go, I think I see Griffin in the crowd, but I can’t look at him now. I fear my resolve will break at seeing a friend, and I’ll fall apart. So, I keep my eyes forward and formal.

  Finally, at the end of the line of people, it’s just me and my parents left. The people are all in back of us now. The linkages of arms won’t break until I’ve said goodbye to my parents.

  Ama and Apa turn their horses around and look at me.

  My mother juts her chin up, in a sign I know is meant for me. I’ve seen it many times when I’m about to cry. It’s her reminder to me to keep my head up. This time the gesture seems softer, affectionate. I jut my chin up to her in response, and she smiles. I look over at my father and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to capture this last picture of my parents before they go. Then I put both my mother and father in my line of sight and mouth the words, “I love you.”

  They mouth it silently back to me.

  I lean forward on my horse to say my last official words to them. Words that will be marked down in history as being my first act as Elected.

  I raise both of my arms out in front of my face at forty-five degree angles. Elbows close to my sides and palms facing up like I’m offering a present. The physical salutation of our country.

  And then in a booming voice reverberating off the mountains in front of us, I give them my final goodbye.

  “A new day to you both!”

  9

  I watch as my parents become dots on the horizon. Even as their forms grow distant, I don’t turn around. I can’t seem to let them go. I stay face-forward for another reason too—I don’t want my people to see the angu
ish carved into my eyes. I’m trying to collect myself.

  I feel a tingling on my cheek. I brush it away, frustrated, thinking my emotions have taken over and I’ve ended up crying after all. But then I hear nervous murmuring behind me. I turn the horse around to look at my people. They’re still linking arms, waiting for me as is customary, but they’re growing restless. I wonder why until I feel another needle prick on my forehead.

  I look up at the sky and see dark green clouds.

  I need to lead. Now!

  “Everyone find shelter!” I yell. As sharp drops of acidic rain fall down on us, everyone lets go of their neighbor’s arms and starts running. I only hope my parents are able to find a cave or some brush to hide under until the onslaught passes.

  Greenish clouds mean rain tinged with radiation-born chemicals. I should have seen the clouds earlier, but a wind must have blown them in quickly. The drops on bare skin will leave tiny blisters. Not enough to really hurt a person, but how would I truly know? We’ve never before stood out in the open as buckets of this rain fall down on our heads.

  I reach down and grab up two small children onto my saddle. I look down at their parents and see their nods of agreement. I ride fast, heading straight for my house. Once under an awning, I drop off the children and ride out again to grab more kids onto my horse. I think I see Griffin helping more children to shelter on the back of a bike, but we don’t have time to stop and talk to each other.

  After a half hour everyone’s indoors, and my skin is itchy and red. I return the horse to the stable, brushing it down because it also felt the acidic rain. Maran is already in the stable, ready to assist. He helps me walk the horse over to a fountain so it can get washed off. The horse thrashes its head around impatiently.

  Maran doesn’t make eye contact with me. He’s too busy tending to the horse. But he says, “Elected, you should get inside and wash up as well.”

  He’s the first person to call me “Elected.” It sounds strange the way it rolls out like the word is too big to fit in his mouth.