Beyond These Walls (Book 5): After Edin

by Robertson, Michael

  “What’s this?” Max said from the side of his mouth. “The man’s ancient. What’s he going to show us?”

  “You’d do well to know I have ears like a hawk,” the old man said. “I might look washed up, but they’ve asked me to teach you because you all need it. So instead of being a dickhead, maybe you should keep your mouth shut and see if you might learn something?”

  Max’s blue eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth as if to respond, but clearly thought better of it.

  Just a foot separating them, the man halted, but he leaned even closer so their noses were nearly touching. “The correct response is yes, sir. You’d do well to remember that. I’d hate to throw you over this wall for insolence.”

  Max ran his tongue across his lips and his nostrils flared.

  “Well?” the old man said.

  Max nodded and spoke slowly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Right, I’m here because you lot are useless. You listen to me and I’ll teach you something about throwing a spear. I might not be able to run anymore, but I can still take the wings off a fly’s back with one throw. They used to call me Bullseye because there’s no one better. Although, I’m a lot older now and prefer the name my mother gave me. You can call me Greg, or sir. Anything else and I’ll gut you.” He stepped close to Samson. “You hear me?”

  Larger and fitter than the man addressing him, Samson might have still been stuck in his petulant funk because they shaved his head, but his maturity shone through and he nodded. “Yes, Greg.”

  “Right!” Greg pulled five spears from the bucket and handed them out. He slammed several beats against the large drum. “Let’s see what you chumps have in you. I’ve been told if I threw you over this wall, you’d struggle to hit the ground. You!” He pointed at Artan.

  Artan walked to the edge of the wall and threw his spear mid-step. The projectile punctured the face of a fat woman, burst out the back of her head, and dropped her.

  Greg whistled. “Impressive.” He reached out and took Cyrus’ spear from him and handed it over.

  Artan nailed an old man next. A bent back, the hunched man fell forwards and hit the ground face first.

  Before Greg could ask for it, William handed over his spear.

  The diseased Artan aimed for screamed as the spear glanced off the side of its face, but he didn’t kill it.

  “Well, I must—”

  Before Greg could say anything else, Artan walked away, down the ramp to the next level, and disappeared from sight.

  “Fair enough.” Greg shrugged and turned to Cyrus. “You next.”

  Cyrus grunted as he let the spear fly. It wobbled mid-flight and landed sideways on the ground. Samson snorted a laugh and shook his head.

  Max next, he hit two like Artan had. And like Artan, he left.

  Samson missed, although at least his spear stuck in the ground.

  William’s turn. When he gripped the spear, Greg said, “Are you trying to throw it or throttle it? Hold it gently. If you can’t hold it right, how do you expect to hit anything?” The older man helped William by adjusting his grip for him, his own hands thick and calloused.

  The spear flew true. It might have stuck into the ground like a planted flag, missing the diseased he’d aimed for by several feet, but it flew true. William did his best to hide his smile in the face of Greg’s disdain.

  The sun had reached its zenith by the time they were done for the day several hours later. Samson and Cyrus left one after the other, Cyrus apparently waiting so he didn’t have to walk with the large man. William hung back to accompany Greg.

  They walked side by side down the first two levels. When they reached the ground, William said, “I’d like to say thank you for your time today.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Go on what?”

  “Say thank you.”

  William smiled. “Thank you. I know it must be frustrating to teach us. I believe the custom here is to wash another person’s feet, if you’ll let me?”

  For the first time that day, Greg’s frown lifted ever so slightly. Still a frown, and a hard one at that, but it shifted from open aggression to disdain. “Come with me.”

  As one of the older members of the community, Greg had his own hut away from the main crowd. The walls were adorned with beautiful paintings of landscapes. For paint, the artist had used dirt, grass, and blood. “Are these yours?” William said.

  By way of reply, Greg handed William a pot filled with water. It had a grey cloth swirling in it. He sat down in a padded seat much like the ones used by the retired hunters near the tri-rings pitch.

  “Why don’t you come to community events?” William asked.

  Still, Greg said nothing and removed his boots and socks, his old feet twisted and gnarled, his toenails like horns.

  When William had finished, Greg choosing to sit in silence for the entire time, William stood up and bowed to the retired hunter. The man dipped his head in return before William left. “Thanks again, Greg. See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 31

  As William drew close to the large hut, he peered through the entrance at the glass sun. How had they lit the place at night, and who the hell was Grandfather Jacks? But the questions left him when he got a clear sight of the tri-rings pitch, and specifically Max and Samson teaching the younger kids in the community the art of sword fighting.

  Several retired hunters between him and his friends, they shook their heads and tutted.

  “What are you doing?” William said, keeping his voice low.

  Max shrugged. “We’re teaching them how to sword fight.”

  “But they hate sword fighting here. Look around.”

  The stick Max had used as a makeshift sword fell slightly limp when he met the retired hunters’ judgement.

  “Sorry,” William called up to them. “We were just trying to help entertain the kids.”

  “By making fools of yourselves?” one of the retired hunters said.

  “And them,” another one added.

  “Come on.” William ushered his friends away before either of them said something they’d have to answer for.

  On the way to their hut, the main gate’s metal chains rattled. Two of the wannabe hunters who’d been at the spear throwing that morning turned a winch on either side to lift the large wooden door.

  About twenty hunters entered, blood stripes on their faces and torsos. Everyone in the community stopped what they were doing and applauded their return. While some of them remained stoic, the boy who’d passed the spear throwing test that morning wore a grin so wide it nearly touched his ears. A dead deer slung across the back of his broad shoulders, he raised his spear aloft to even more cheers.

  As more of the hunters filed into the place, William sidled closer to Max and Samson. “I’m guessing the hunt went well, then.”

  “Looks that way,” Max said.

  Maybe William imagined the atmosphere the next day. Samson had sniped at Cyrus most of the previous evening, the boy finally admitting defeat by going to bed early. Were it not for Matilda by his side, he might not have slept a wink. But he couldn’t worry about everyone else’s problems. They were adults, or as good as; they could look after themselves.

  Still ill at ease when they went for breakfast, maybe William also imagined the hostility from those in the community. Maybe he projected the turmoil within his own party on them. Even if they were pissed off, he couldn’t blame them. So far, they’d eaten their food and offered nothing in return other than sword fighting lessons.

  They all ate in silence. Afterwards, the girls went with Rita and Mary to help in the fields, while the boys returned to the back wall to meet Greg.

  A similar routine to the previous morning, except Artan hit three diseased and left, while Max only hit two. Samson hit one this time, and Cyrus would probably do better throwing rocks.

  William’s turn, he tried to loosen his shoulder and arm while he wound back and took aim. This time, when he threw his spear, not only d
id it fly true, but it scored a direct hit, the sharp point entering the back of a diseased’s head and punching out through the front of its face.

  Greg gave them more time and William scored several more headshots. Never two in a row, but he killed more today than he had yesterday. Samson and Cyrus left again, and William returned with Greg to his hut.

  “He doesn’t say much,” Greg said while William cleaned his feet.

  “Who?”

  “The moody boy you have with you. The one with the gaunt face and brooding stare.”

  “Artan?”

  “That’s right. And the other one says too much.”

  “Max.”

  “Yes, Max. What’s Artan’s story?”

  “He was in prison.”

  Greg raised his bushy white eyebrows.

  “He was innocent.”

  “They all are.”

  “Well, not innocent, but his crime was entirely justified.”

  “The second we start justifying crime, we lose our civility.”

  “He killed his dad.”

  “And that’s justified?”

  “His dad had killed his mum.”

  “Quite the family drama.”

  “The man beat Artan and Matilda for years; they’re brother and sister.”

  “I could tell. And you’re sweet on her?”

  Heat flooded William’s cheeks and he focused on washing Greg’s feet. “We have been since we were kids.”

  Still not a smile, but the more time William spent around Greg, the more the old man’s frown lifted.

  “Greg, can I ask you something?”

  “You just did.”

  “Did you do all these paintings?”

  There must have been fifty or so, one of them taking up an entire wall in the basic hut. “I did.”

  “They all look like the same place.” Sandy beaches, a bright sun in the sky, birds flying overhead, boats floating in the sea. “I’ve never seen somewhere so beautiful, other than in some of the books from the old world, but I thought they were just stories. Where is it?”

  “It’s the place I dream about when I sleep. A place I long to live in rather than this hideous wasteland.”

  William’s mouth hung open. He never tired of looking at the wonderful paintings. “I’m going to try to visit it in my dreams too. If you don’t mind, that is?”

  “You’re welcome any time.”

  William bumped into his friends when he left Greg’s hut. After training, they’d gone to work in the fields. Max and Olga walked together. The fact they were so close to one another and not arguing seemed like progress. Samson walked alone. Artan, Cyrus, and Matilda talked amongst themselves. After holding hands with Matilda and checking she was okay, William and Max moved away from the group.

  “What’s going on?” William said. “With you and Olga?”

  “I don’t know what to do, William. I like her, I really do.”

  “And she likes you. So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not?”

  “I can’t be with her. What do you think will happen the second we kiss?”

  William gasped and clapped his hand to his mouth. “Oh, shit! I didn’t think. At all. Shit.”

  “Exactly. So what am I supposed to do? Get into a relationship with her but deprive her of intimacy? It would be torture for me, so how can I expect her to tolerate it? She should choose someone else. Hawk seems like a nice guy.”

  William rolled his eyes. “Maybe you need to let her make that choice rather than push her away?”

  Max shrugged. “My head’s a mess.” He walked off before William could say anything else.

  When William nailed three diseased in a row the next day, Greg not only smiled, but he shrieked and punched the air. “And there it is! I knew you had it in you!” Even Cyrus had hit two in a row that morning in training. But all the others had already left while William remained back and practiced some more. “I’m going to tell Slate to let you take the trials again tomorrow. They want to take you out hunting soon, and I think you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Greg.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’m going to miss our training sessions. With all the other nonsense that’s been going on, it’s given me something to focus on.”

  When they reached the ground, Greg said, “Today, I wash your feet.”

  Sat in Greg’s comfy chair while he had his feet cleaned, William studied the paintings again. “I can almost smell the salt in the sea. At least, what I expect it to smell like.”

  Greg smiled.

  “Greg, who’s Grandfather Jacks?”

  The older man’s smile faltered and he kept his focus on William’s feet. “He’s the high father. The one we look up to.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Some questions are better off unanswered.”

  Before William could ask him anything else, Greg stood up while drying his hands. “Can I offer you some advice, William?”

  “You always have before.”

  Although Greg smiled again, his eyes lost focus. “This place … it’s toxic. You might have safety, but I think all the problems in your group will feel better when you’re away from here. This isn’t somewhere you should stay. Not if you want all the things you’ve told me about. Matilda’s a special girl, and Olga doesn’t deserve it either.”

  “What are you talking about, Greg?”

  “Just move on soon, yeah?” He held his hand out for William to shake. “It’s been a pleasure training with you. I won’t be at the ceremony tomorrow—I tend to stay away—but good luck. Learning how to hunt like us will stand you in good stead. Take that with you when you go.”

  Words didn’t seem to cut it, so William wrapped Greg in a hug, the man squeezing so tightly it took William back to being in his dad’s arms. His eyes filled with tears and his throat burned. Unable to speak, he left the old man’s hut. Tomorrow he’d become a hunter. Who knew what would happen after that?

  Chapter 32

  Having spent the past three days on the scaffolding with his friends while Greg oversaw their training, William had grown used to being on the tall structure this early in the morning. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs, the strong and fresh breeze helping his digestion, his stomach full from a breakfast of deer meat and bread. He’d never eaten so well as he had since he’d come to Umbriel.

  Twenty minutes later, William’s moment of peace existed as no more than a distant memory. Most of the community had joined them, the entire wooden frame shaking and swaying. Their raucous need for celebration exploded from them as if they delivered it in an open challenge to the heavens. Whatever you throw at us, we will endure. Grandfather Jacks provides.

  The drums summoned the diseased from far away, the higher-pitched rhythm from the smaller ones riding on the back of the deep bass drum boom from the top of the wall. A dense pack of foetid creatures gathered like groupies, nudging and shoving one another as they jostled for position. Hundreds of glazed crimson stares, their mouths working as if their jaws ached, spasms snapping through them. The sight turned the back of William’s knees weak.

  Greg had been true to his word and hadn’t shown. The man’s absence sent a pang through William’s chest. He considered him a friend and would have liked him to witness his improved performance. And what had he meant when he’d told him to move on? When should they move on and why? What didn’t they know about Umbriel?

  The elders might have disapproved of the sword training and how William and his friends worked in the fields with the women, but Rita, Mary, and Dianna were on the top level of the scaffolding, showing their support, as were most of the community’s children. At least they’d won over some of Umbriel’s citizens. When they proved what they could now do with their spears, surely they would convince more of them.

  The crowd parted for Slate, who appeared on the top floor of the scaffolding with his usual wide grin. Two hunte
rs walked behind him: Hawk, his face twisted like he’d eaten something foul, and the newest hunter to come through the trials, also stoic, but not as openly hostile as his scarred partner.

  Slate stopped just a few feet away from William and used his hand to cut through the air, silencing the drummers and crowd. “Bullseye tells me you’ve come a long way in the past three days. That all of you might be ready to join us on our next hunt.”

  William shrugged. “We’ve been trying hard.”

  “So I’ve heard. Well, what are we waiting for? Show us what you can do.”

  Artan had spent the least amount of time training. He’d thrown his spears and left every day, yet he stepped up first, using the end of his spear to point into the crowd. “The tall black man with a gash across his face.”

  The boy threw his spear with such force, it made a swoosh! It sailed directly into the face of his intended target, dropping the diseased freak.

  The crowd gasped.

  “The small white boy with the red top.” Maybe distasteful to take down an infant, and the silence of the crowd afterwards suggested they felt the same, but if Artan cared about their reaction, it didn’t show. Besides, he’d just nailed a smaller target. That had to be worth something, right? The spear had sailed straight through the kid’s face, and it pinned him to the ground.

  “The white woman with the blonde curly hair.” No way would William have aimed for a target so far away. Swoosh! Artan took her down too.

  Wild celebration shoved the somber atmosphere aside. The crowd cheered and shouted and the drummers played, the galloping boom of it sending rolling thunder away from the scaffolding out across the wastelands.

  Again, Slate chopped the air to silence everyone. “Well done, Artan.” Several hunters, including Hawk and the newest recruit, approached Artan, helped him free of his top, and painted his face with the blood of their latest kill. They drew lines that accentuated the boy’s already angled bone structure, and added extra shade to his sallow cheeks. He looked like he’d been brought back from the dead.