We stare at one another. Our world has been turned upside down and we both know it can never go back.
“I have to go back to the village soon,” says Abigail finally, breaking the spell. “It’s getting late and I don’t want your father to get suspicious or for anyone to see me when I return. I bought you a sleeping pack and more food. Wait for me here?” I see the force of the request in her eyes. “I’ll be back as early as I can in the morning.”
“Thank you, Abigail. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Normally this sentiment would have earned me a thump to the arm but Abigail places the back of her hand on my cheek and strokes it tenderly for a moment.
“I’m so glad you are home,” she says, blinking back tears. I am surprised by her emotion and my throat tightens. We hug briefly and I watch her pull the leafy curtain aside before she disappears.
I clear the ground and lay out the sleeping pack. My wound is aching and I sew a few more stitches to replace the ones that tore today. Healing balm and a bandage should help, which I apply before stretching out on the pack. I’m too tired to eat the food that Abigail packed and I soon fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eleven
The morning bathes me in tiny specks of light that pierce the shelter of the old willow tree. The dawn air is cold and fresh and my sleeping pack warm. Hunger finally drives me out. My body aches and it is good to stretch. Abigail packed some boiled eggs and more bread. There is also a thin slice of cheese wrapped in paper. A mug of hot tea would be nice but I make do with water, now chilled by the night.
Loud, raucous sounds fill the air around me as the forest inhabitants shake off the night. Birds call to one another and the trees themselves pulsate with slow, meandering life. A solid night of sleep has served me well. I am eager to meet Abigail but it will be an hour or so until she’ll be back, so I take a walk to pass the time.
Our willow tree is close to my village and I find myself drawn closer. Soon I can see the cluster of white-walled log houses through the trees and I slow down, moving more quietly and carefully. I stand behind a large oak, check I am well hidden, and watch the village wake up. My neighbors open their doors and fetch wood for the morning fire. People attend to their sewage-gas generators, filling the digester with manure and food scraps. Philip Parson, my friend Marissa’s father, empties the slurry from his generator into the forest nearby. One by one, smoke pours out of the narrow chimneys. I smell freshly baked flat bread and steaming porridge. Everything is as it should be.
I carefully skirt around the village closer to my home. The doors and windows remain closed. There is no smoke from the chimney and no sign of my family. From my vantage point I can also view Abigail’s home and I watch as her mother opens the front door. Her face is drawn and tired. She is dressed for work in the fields. I almost miss seeing Abigail as she drops out of her window and runs towards the closest thicket of trees. I had better hurry back to our place. She will be unhappy that I left the safety of the willow tree to loiter near our village, risking capture.
I make it back before Abigail and I pace around the perimeter of the tree impatiently, waiting for her. Soon enough I hear Abigail’s whistle announcing her arrival and she walks through the forest and into the small clearing around the willow tree. I am surprised her father is with her. I’m not sure how he has avoided work duty but I am happy to see him.
We all enter the safety of the tree’s cover and Abigail’s father embraces me. “It’s good to see you, son,” he says in a low voice, holding my hand in his. He has the same wiry black hair as Abigail and his hands are slender and calloused. He is family. I’ve known him my entire life.
“It’s good to see you too. Thank you for coming,” I say, bowing my head slightly.
“You look terrible,” he says, taking me by the shoulders. I laugh but the sound contracts awkwardly. He looks at me again, deeply and in that knowing way that kinfolk do, and my face gets red. Tears threaten my eyes and I quickly rub them.
“It will be okay, Chris,” he says. He pulls me against his chest and I am like a small boy again. I am grateful for the comfort and he holds me for a few more moments before we all sit down on the ground and I share the last of my bread with them.
“Have you learnt anything about Delphine?” I ask. “Is she okay?”
“She’s in the pit,” says Abigail. “They’ve put your mother in there too.” Abigail looks miserable. “I’m so sorry, Chris. I assumed maybe they would spare your mother because of your father.”
“The elders are out of control,” Abigail’s father mutters.
“We need to get them out.” I speak louder than I intended and Abigail and her father exchange worried looks. Abigail peers out of the curtain to make sure we are still alone in the forest.
“We need to be quiet,” says Abigail when she returns to sit with us. “Practically the whole island knows the elders are looking for you. If someone were to overhear us, they could report back to the elders or, worse, try to capture you themselves. We aren’t sure who to trust at this stage.”
“We don’t know who is watching, or listening,” says Abigail’s father. “I want you to always be alert, Chris. And keep well away from the villages. I don’t want you to be accidentally seen.” My face flushes as I remember my morning adventure. “We are working on a plan though,” he adds.
“Who else is with us?” I ask. “Is my father?”
“I’m sorry, son.” Abigail’s father shakes his head.
“We’ve got six more,” says Abigail quickly. “The Mumfords and also the Parsons are with us. They want to get answers.”
The Mumfords have two young daughters and are quiet people. They live close to my home. They are both blacksmiths and Sally Mumford has a distinct long red scar on her check from an accident at the forge. I am surprised they are involved. They never struck me as revolutionaries. But neither am I.
The Parsons are also from our village. Marissa Parson is one of my close friends. Her father, Philip Parson, is a sailor and a fisherman with a reputation for drinking whisky. He and Rich have been sailing together many times. His face is lined from the sun and his voice is loud. His wife works the fields with Abigail’s parents.
“Who is the sixth person?” I ask. Abigail coughs and averts her eyes to the floor.
“It’s Carl Spool,” says Abigail’s father, looking enquiringly between Abigail and myself. He notices the surprise on my face because he blurts: “He’s a good boy, Chris. He’s not like his father.”
“He’s changed, Chris,” says Abigail.
I remember the first time I met Carl. We were both eleven years old and our fathers were attending a council meeting in my village. Elder Spool had bought his son along because his wife was unwell. My mother was busy working, attending to some ailment elsewhere on the island, so they left us alone to amuse ourselves while the men went inside.
We wondered down to the beach and threw stones as far as we could into the water. I was a head taller than Carl and consistently threw further than him. I could sense his frustration and suggested that we do something else. Carl refused to leave and kept flinging stones into the waves repeatedly, becoming more belligerent with every splash. I told him I was going home and turned to walk up the beach back towards the village.
The stone he threw at the back of my head caused me to stumble into the sand. I’d never been attacked like that before and have not since been assaulted with my back turned. When I jumped up to confront Carl, he was gone.
I walked back to the village by myself. When I was halfway back, the stones came again, over and over. One struck me in the face and another in the back. They hit my legs, and I found purple bruises there the following day. I remember running to escape the onslaught, not resting until I reached home. The skin has smoothed over the years but my finger can still trace the ridge where hit me with the first stone.
“We can’t trust him,” I say.
“We need all the help we
can get,” says Abigail’s father. “And I am confident we can trust him. I think you are worried because of who his father is, but it’s actually because of who his father is that we can trust him. He wants an end to the secrecy too. He’s seen it all firsthand, from the inside.”
“It’s not because of who his father is,” I say dryly.
Abigail’s father pauses a moment but doesn’t press me further. Abigail, who has heard the story of the stones before, keeps her eyes down when I turn to her. “Anyway, our immediate focus needs to be getting our people: your brother and mother, Ada and Delphine out of the pit,” he says.
“Then what? Should we go to the elders and try to convince them that the island is in danger?” I ask.
“I’m not sure about that,” says Abigail. “This is more complicated than just Delphine’s theory about the floods coming. Ada has told your mother other things. We suspect the elders are hiding more from us and maybe they can never be trusted.”
“Yes, Abigail, I agree,” says her father. He stands and leans against the willow’s broad trunk. “Look what they’ve done to anyone who questions them. They’ve all ended up in the pit. They want to cover this all up. Carl says his father is worried about people on the island panicking and the elders losing control.”
“They are losing control,” I say. “I don’t trust them. I question the veracity of The Book, and I don’t believe in the sacrifice.”
I expect shock on Abigail’s father’s face but he looks at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know how I feel about The Book,” he says. He tucks a strand of coarse black hair behind his ear. “But Delphine and Ada have raised enough questions in my mind for us to at least investigate further. I’ve lost faith in the elders’ ability to lead. They refuse to acknowledge that there is any risk at all to the island and the fact they want to hide Ada’s existence rings a warning bell for me.”
“Who is Ada?” I ask them, my thoughts racing. “Abigail, you said something yesterday about her falling from the sky. You said she lived in a metal ring orbiting the Earth?” I smile despite myself.
“Before the Great Floods, people had capabilities we can’t even begin to imagine,” says Abigail. “Imagine being able to travel all the way to the moon and beyond in a metal vessel! Ada’s ancestors were in a spacecraft that went into space at the time of the Great Floods and has been orbiting the Earth for hundreds of years.” Abigail’s eyes are bright and her face is animated.
“Why did she come here?” I ask. “How did she get down?”
“She came down in a small vessel that crashed here accidentally. Your mother has been speaking to Ada since they put her in the pit. They—the people in the spacecraft, sent her down with two others to retrieve information that the people on board need to return to Earth. Ada seems to know a lot about the mainland and about all kinds of things that existed before the Great Floods.”
“Where are the other two people?” I ask.
“Ada told your mother they died when they crash landed and tried to swim to shore. We haven’t seen the vessel or her friends’ bodies. I suppose the elders have disposed of them somewhere,” replies Abigail’s father.
“And you both accept her story?” I am incredulous.
“You sound like your father,” says Abigail, an edge to her voice.
“Why did she come here?”
“I understand she was aiming for a settlement called Washington but they veered off-course,” says Abigail’s father. “Washington possesses the information that her people need. I don’t have the full story though. Those details are not important right now.”
“They’re important,” I say. “You sound like the elders when you say things like that.”
“We owe it to ourselves to help Ada, get off the island and discover what’s on the mainland,” snaps Abigail. She doesn’t try to hide her frustration with me.
I remember Lucky’s charred corpse, the sickening smell of the fire-roasted flesh. I remember Millie running after our horses through the forest; the last time I ever saw her. I remember the beast that bit my leg.
I laugh and the sound is bitter in my throat: “Trust me, the mainland should not be a draw for you.”
I give them an account of our ordeal on the mainland and they listen in silence. They seem to understand that I need to purge myself in this way. I finally finish and lean back on my arms, looking up at the murky depths of the canopy overhead.
“Just because New York is bad, doesn’t mean that Washington won’t be different,” whispers Abigail into the silence.
“Goddamn it, Abigail! Trust me when I say it’s all the same!” My voice explodes through the forest and Abigail frowns at me before jumping up and peering through the curtain to the forest beyond.
“Is anyone…” starts Abigail’s father, but Abigail holds up a hand, fear on her face, and he stops mid-sentence.
Abigail slowly releases the curtain and we watch as the branches swing back and forth before coming to a rest. I can hear them now; people are approaching. We all melt deeper into the safety of the tree and step behind the trunk until we are as far away as possible from the voices. I’m grateful that Abigail picked up my sleeping pack and the bag she left last night.
“Are we going to stop for lunch soon?” says a voice.
“You’re always thinking about food, Murphy.”
“Murphy,” I mouth to Abigail.
“He’s our friend,” I whisper to Abigail’s father. “Should we go out and speak to them? Murphy wouldn’t turn us in.” Abigail’s father shakes his head vigorously and places a hand on my arm as though to restrain me. I stare at his hand and then turn to Abigail. She moves her hand to my other arm and shakes her head. The message is clear. We stand quietly by the trunk and listen as the sound of the voices and footsteps fade into the forest.
When all is quiet once more, we breathe a collective sigh of relief.
“Chris, you need to understand that the elders want you,” he whispers. “Everyone on the island knows and most of them believe you’ve gone crazy with love for Delphine, who they think is insane, or possessed by the Devil.”
I let his words linger for a moment.
“We have to get her out,” I say decisively. “Before they hurt her. Or worse.”
“We agree,” says Abigail. “But we have to do it right. We’ll only have one shot to get them out and we need to get Ada out alive too. We will meet with the others today and work out a plan.”
“We need to go now! We can’t wait for Carl and the rest of those people to agonize over a plan.” There is a deep frown on my face.
“We need them, Chris. We need to all work together on this one, trust me,” says Abigail’s father kindly. “The elders hold all the power at the moment. Our advantage is having a group large enough to take on the elders. One man can’t do it on his own, Chris. We are much stronger together.”
As he speaks, I imagine the people I love most in the world; my mother, my brother and Delphine, all trapped in the pit.
“Sure,” I say.
Abigail and her father give me another parcel of food and water and promise me they will be back tomorrow morning with more details of our rescue plan. We all embrace and I watch them tread carefully through the forest towards our village. I lie down on my sleeping pack and will time to move quickly.
My legs are restless. I jump up and pace around the inside of my green prison. I think about Rich sailing away from me under fire from a gunman. My dear brother, who risked it all because I asked him to, now imprisoned in the pit. I swing a wild punch at the air and decide the time for action has arrived.
Chapter Twelve
I decide to travel light and retrieve only the shotgun, compass, and knife, which I tie to my back with a length of rope. I eat a small lunch and also pack some cheese and bread in my pocket. I hold the water flask in my hand, debating whether to bring it along. I take a long drink instead and leave it with my pack and the food that Abigail bought me. It’s important that I am not overl
oaded, that my hands are free. I cover my possessions with branches and leaves at the base of the willow. It wouldn’t fool anyone looking closely but I hope that the camouflage would pass a cursory glance into the curtain.
I set off through the forest towards the village of Chilmark. The pit is located halfway between West Tisbury and Chilmark and I should reach it by nightfall. I have never seen the inside of the pit but I know where it is. We all do. As children, Abigail, Rich and I used to dare each other to go close to it, but we never passed the ring of trees that surround the clearing around the pit. It was thrilling to be that close to something we feared deeply but little understood.
I remember that people from Chilmark once guarded the entrance, but prisoners in the pit have been infrequent in recent years and it’s been mostly unguarded. Evidently, though, things have now changed. I steel myself for what may lie ahead.
Even though I am moving cautiously, I make good time through the forest and soon pass close to West Tisbury. The sounds of the village burst through the forest and then fade as I walk past. The sun is lower in the sky and it will shortly get dark.
I welcome the safety of night as the sun sets. I can move more freely through the forest as the shadows lengthen. Once I am well past West Tisbury and the light has gone completely, there is the occasional voice and footfall through the blackness but I am thankful to cross paths with no one.
It is surreal to be hiking through the wild, practically impenetrable forest in the depths of night, searching for the pit. Abigail and her father will be furious if they come to the willow tree and find me gone. I derive a perverse pleasure from the thought of them finding the tree deserted.
The pit is only about twenty chains away now and I cover the distance slowly, shifting my weight gently, desperate not to make a sound. Despite my efforts, it seems every crack of a twig underfoot is magnified a thousand fold. I move furtively, bent down low and keeping a line of cover between the clearing and myself, and make it to the edge of the clearing around the pit without being seen.
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