by Lan Chan
What does she have to gain from abducting me anyway? Then I see her scratching the scabs on her arm where the blood fury venom hit her. The wounds that only healed because I was stupid enough to feel pity for her. I know now why she wants me. It’s not really me she’s after, but what I know about Micah’s Rose.
“You must love this,” she says.
Any idiot can tell it’s best to keep quiet, but I can’t help myself. “Love is a strong term. Enjoying is probably a better description.”
She hacks and spits a wad of phlegm on the ground. “I’ll bet you sleep real well knowing all of the Landing has to live the way you do now,” she says.
Suddenly, I’m confused. She’s acting like I wanted the sanction to happen.
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” she says, making a sweeping gesture with her left arm. “Isn’t that what you Wanderers live for? For us all to go back to shitting in holes and bathing ourselves in cat piss? That’s what life was like after the Famine and the wars, you know.”
I can’t even dignify that with an answer. The scary thing is her ill-informed belief seems completely genuine. The fervour in her speech says she believes every word she’s saying. Is this how all the Farmers see the Wanderers?
“You sound like you enjoy being caged.” I sneer. I can think of nothing worse.
“It’s a small price to pay for peace,” she says. “Before the Seeders organised the refugees who landed on these shores, we were a rabble of lost and broken people. The Seeders restored order, and yes, it’s bad not to be able to save our own seeds, but it’s a small price to pay so we aren’t living in the dark days.”
It’s my turn to spit. She may as well be quoting from the movie picture exhibit at the museum in the Citadel.
“This isn’t peace,” I say as evenly as I can despite the blood curdling in my veins. “It’s murder and slavery!”
“What would you know about slavery?” She turns and presses the upper groove of the bow into my left shoulder. “You were the Seeders’ pet for years. We all saw you running around with Aiden Forrester like you didn’t have a care in the world. Don’t talk to me about slavery. We were fed, clothed, and protected. I loved my parents’ farm. We worked hard, but at least we were together. And now…”
She’s as close to tears as I’ve ever seen, and I can’t utter a word for the life of me. I want to shout at her, to shake some sense into her, but I’m too astonished. Worst of all, her words have planted a seed of self-doubt into my mind. I’ve been to most of the other regions on my circus tours. There are only three farming regions in Australia. The rest are fishing or animal processing regions. Compared to those, the Landing was paradise.
For a split second my resolve wavers, but then I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of her irises. My hair hangs in disarray around my shoulders and there are huge bags under my eyes, but as usual, my attention focuses on the scar. The one her precious Seeders gave me simply because my mother was a Wanderer.
Years of hatred slam my convictions back into place. “Is that why you’ve done this to me?” I say. I grasp for something that will hurt her as much as she’s hurting me. “Gage probably hates you by now.”
The boot in my stomach isn’t unexpected, but still catches me by surprise. It knocks the wind out of me and I fall over, clutching at my side. The pain is acute, and I don’t get up. I just lie there and look up at her, muddy earth sticking to my hair and the side of my face.
“You think you know everything,” she says. Her voice is soft but steely. “You have no idea what it’s like for me and my family.”
“I know if I was them, I’d be ashamed you’re a traitor.”
“Don’t you dare mention my family!” she roars. This time I see the kick coming, but it still hurts just as much. “I’m going to get to the Citadel and convince them we’re not all Wanderer-loving traitors. They’ll have to listen, especially when I show them this.” She holds up the tub of cream like it’s a trophy.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but your Seeder saviours aren’t as benevolent as you think. Let me go and I’ll figure out a way to get them to help us.”
I can see in her resolute expression that nothing I say will convince her otherwise. She’s spent too long believing the Citadel’s lies, and her desperation to save her family will win out over my welfare any day. And why are you going to the Citadel? I ask myself. It all boils down to the same thing. We’re both hoping the Seeders have a smidgen of mercy in their shrivelled hearts. The only difference between Cora and me is that she’s hoping for the Seeders to forgive us out of the goodness of their hearts, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to force them if they won’t.
Every waking moment from then on I am consumed with escape. Whenever Cora’s watchfulness slips for even a second, I scan the forest for food and water. I need to keep my strength up if I’m going to be any match for Cora when the time comes. Sometimes, I’m able to sip a few drops of water collected in the trumpet of a leaf, or I’ll chew on some herbs that I know for sure are safe. Hunger has become a constant companion, and I can’t help but dwell on Papa and the others back in the Landing.
I can’t remember how long I’ve been in the forest, but it has to be over a week. The food rations must be getting thinner, as will the people. How much longer does Papa have? Is he already…? No, I won’t let myself even contemplate it.
Whenever Cora is asleep, I slip the knife from my boot and saw at the bottom of the rope so she won’t be able to see it’s frayed. I have to do it slowly, and each slice sends vibrations up the leash that makes my heart stop until I’m sure she won’t wake.
When the binding is loose enough that I have some movement in my wrist, I’m able to unbind the bandage around my dislocated finger. The muscles still feel tight and the swelling isn’t entirely gone, but my fingers will bend and that’s all I need.
On the third day of my abduction, something happens that starts a chain reaction of ideas. First, we run dangerously low on food. So low that Cora starts to shove plants in front of me, demanding to know whether they’re poisonous. Any time I say something isn’t poisonous, she makes me eat some of it first. If I don’t die within a couple of hours, then she considers it safe enough to eat.
From then on, I bide my time, making sure not to seem too confident in my diagnosis and using these instances as a means to feed myself for strength. The terrain has become much steeper, so we must be nearing the outskirts of the Citadel. I begin to keep a watchful eye for a succulent plant called moonface with bright-white daisy flowers. My mother’s books recount its prolific growth in the higher altitudes of the mountain. Eaten in small doses, the fleshy leaves are a purifier. Taken in large quantities, it induces vomiting and in some instances haemorrhaging of the blood vessels. I begin to pray for the latter.
Just as I’m beginning to think the plant is a myth, at dusk, I trip on a smattering of rocks close to the tree line and fall right into a patch of moonface.
It’s noon when Cora calls a break, and this is so out of routine that I know she’s exhausted as well. I tentatively approach the patch of Moonface and snap off a few leaves. Almost instantly, she’s at my side. I struggle to hide my elation.
“Well?” Cora says. “Is it edible?”
I make a show of turning the stems over, sniffing at it, and nicking the skin with my nail. As usual, I’m given the task of being a tester. The juicy stem is refreshing with a hint of sour aftertaste that would suggest to any forager that something is wrong. After a few hours, I feel like I’m going to heave, but my weakened state helps camouflage the effects.
In the end, I need to relieve myself, but after that, I’m feeling much better. My captor is only too eager to gorge herself after that. The plant becomes more plentiful the farther up we walk and is easily digestible. My spirits lift with every bite she takes. If she had half a brain, she’d notice how none of the birds will touch it, which is the second indication that something is amiss.<
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I have to eat too so as not to raise suspicion, but I only lick at the juice and take tiny bites away from the skin where the poison won’t be so strong.
It doesn’t take long for the poison to kick in. One minute Cora is licking the juice from her fingers, and the next her eyes widen and she bends over, vomiting violently.
I tear apart the last of the rope binding and rush towards her, weak but fuelled by a sudden hope of escape. It’s neither a strong attack nor a particularly coordinated one, and I suffer for that. I barrage into Cora’s side, knocking her over. She grabs hold of my sleeve as she falls and we both tumble into the undergrowth.
I go for her gun, but even in sickness, she is far stronger than me and her hands attempt to curl around my throat. She’s bigger, but I’m significantly faster, and I push away so her fingers only claw at my cheeks. Sharp pains burst on either side of my face where’s she’s torn off bits of skin, and I clench my jaw to keep from crying out.
Sensing her loss of control, Cora finally reaches for the gun. I fling the blunt knife at her wrist, knocking the weapon to the ground. I smash my foot into her chest. She bends over, spluttering, but manages to get hold of my calf and yanks me forward. She sidesteps so I go headfirst into a tree trunk. My arms come out just in time to take the brunt of the impact. I hear Cora fumble with my belt, and I instinctively start to climb.
The gunshot hits the trunk where I was seconds earlier. I leap a couple of trees as though I’m going to try and run. Cora bolts after me, and I let her overtake me as I double back to the spot where she dropped the gun. I let myself fall to the ground.
Cora turns back as my fingers close on the grip of her dropped weapon. She raises her arm, but I’m already firing. Time slows to a trickle. There’s a rushing in my ears and a metallic taste in my mouth. My finger clicks loudly from stiffness as I squeeze the trigger, but I feel no pain. I feel nothing but the intense focus that pushes me to perform well.
She’s dead before the second bullet drives into her neck, but I don’t stop shooting. Don’t stop screaming until I’ve emptied the magazine into her lifeless body.
How can it be so easy? This girl, who was once my ally, snuffed out in an instant. I take in her bloodied body and my stomach lurches. I drop the gun and heave.
Suddenly I’m crying. Great big sobs of relief and anguish and guilt. I can’t take my eyes off Cora. She could be asleep except for the pool of black blood seeping from her chest and neck. It shouldn’t have been her. The first person I killed should not have been a Farmer girl. She deserves it, a part of me assures. That part is reckless and remorseless. The other part of me recoils and flees deep inside. I feel like I’m being torn right through the middle, and only one thing is left when it’s all over: I have to do whatever I can to survive.
Why don’t I feel anything besides numbness? I stand there for too long, staring at Cora, but not really seeing her. What I do see is myself in her place. If the Seeders hadn’t plucked me from obscurity to become the Wind Dancer, would I despise them so much now? Or would I be like Cora and wish for their returned patronage to protect my family? I know I would probably have done the same in her place, and it makes it that much harder to hate her.
That’s why I find myself crawling through the underbrush, collecting dry twigs and leaves to build a pyre around her. I set the pyre alight the way Aiden taught me by furiously rubbing two twigs together. The friction causes the dry leaves to ignite, and before long the pyre is ablaze.
I stay with her for a long time, collecting wood and leaves whenever the pyre burns through the materials. Finally, as evening draws in on me, I wipe my nose on my sleeve, empty the contents of her pack into mine, and turn around and run away.
Seventeen
I run until it feels like my lungs will burst and every drag of air is excruciating. Then I stumble around in the dark for hours until I finally give up and start to climb again. I go up as far as I can, as high as the branches will support me, and wait for the coming dawn.
I’m awoken by the hollowness in my stomach. My eyes are grainy and the light is too bright, but I force them open. I’m way above the first canopy, and this high up, the forest is covered in a layer of mist so dense it could be snow.
But no layer of weather would be magical enough to obscure the other sight. High above the treetops, pushing upwards so the tips of the skyscrapers disappear into the clouds, is the Citadel. I hadn’t even noticed it was so close. On this level, the Iron Gates and the six-metre wall surrounding the Citadel are obscured by trees. Besides Warden Tower and the distant gleam from the dome over the Forgotten Garden, the skyline has changed dramatically from what I once knew. Skyscrapers have risen and fallen, and there’s a sense that the entire city is slowly expanding over the mountain it rests on.
It feels wrong to be trying to get back into the Citadel after so long. I barely escaped the first time, and only because I suspect Papa made some kind of untoward deal with the Seeders in exchange for my freedom. Yet seeing it so close, knowing it’s not just a figment of my imagination, fills me with a sense of urgency.
I’m not ready. I don’t have enough information about what I’m getting myself into. So I do the only thing that comes naturally when I’m unsure. I start to climb and don’t stop until the branch I cling to is little more than sapwood. I seat myself with my belly against the tiny leader branch and hug the tree as it sways precariously against the prevailing wind. In this moment, I actually feel like I’m a part of the eternal dance between the earth and the sky. The branch tips horizontally, and I close my eyes and pretend I’m on a ride at the fair that accompanies the circus around the regions.
I smile and then catch myself as a sickening thought occurs to me. Do I really love soaring over the earth, or is it something the Seeders have planted in me by conditioning? If it’s the latter, does it say something about me that I’ve embraced being up so high?
Stop it, I tell myself. These aren’t the kinds of questions I should be asking myself at a time like this. I can make out the very tip of the Iron Gate now. On either side of the gate there loom two stone watchtowers that stand sentinel against any who would dare cross without consent. How am I going to get past them?
There’s no better point of entry that I can discern. I can’t go over the fence, and even if I could, the electrified wire at the top would fry me in a second. And I doubt sneaking in will make the Wardens look favourably on me. I have no choice but to make for the gates and then hope I don’t get shot on sight. Some plan.
I go to untangle myself from the branch. The wind changes and carries with it a scent so unexpected I think I must be dreaming. Where is it? My head swivels so quickly I make myself dizzy, but I keep scanning anyway. Suddenly, the rising sun crests the thick layer of fog and the treetops are showered in glittering motes of golden sunshine. It’s impossible, but I somehow feel as though the forest has waited for this exact moment to reveal its beauty to me. Leaves ripple like the currents on a still lake and there, attached to the thinnest branches, are hundreds of Micah’s Rose flowers. The glaucous round leaves and the plant’s ability to derive nutrients from the air make it more of an orchid than a rose, but its stunning double red rosette flowers are what I’ve named it for. The silvery fog softens all the sharp edges as though I’m seeing it all in a dream. I almost pinch myself because I can barely believe it.
How do the Seeders not know these are here? My mother’s lessons resonate more clearly than ever. “The land cannot be tamed, Rory,” she used to say. “It is only the Seeders’ arrogance that lets them believe they have the illusion of control. They only see the merit in a world they themselves have created. We can’t make that same mistake. Nature provides for us and controls us, not the other way around.”
Back then I didn’t believe her. I’ve seen firsthand the area of devastation the Seeders have wrought with their toxic chemicals. This forest is living proof of the Seeders’ control. Yet thousands of little contradictions to the Seeders’ doctri
nes wink at me from their cradles between the trees branches. I swallow hard thinking about what could be done with this many Micah’s Rose plants.
Nothing can be done if you sit around here all day, a dry voice says. I sigh and scuttle down the tree and continue to walk. Before long, I’m woozy. I need to eat. The jerky is long gone and there’s only a little water in the bladder. There’s nothing I can do but hunker down beside a tree trunk and watch the inhabitants of the forest go about their daily routine in the hopes of picking up what is and isn’t edible.
Insects crawl amongst the debris on the forest floor, using the dead leaf litter for camouflage and shelter. Several nuisance birds circle around me, twittering away but not being helpful. Finally, a sugar glider possum descends onto a branch just out of reach. It loosens a bit of lichen from the tree and then glides away again. I am up in an instant and peeling off scabs of white lichen that resemble fern fronds. I really don’t want to put the plant in my mouth, much less make myself chew and swallow it, but I do anyway. It has a strange gelatinous texture that coats my tongue and roof of my mouth, but I keep forcing it down until I can’t bear it anymore. Only then do I allow myself a couple of mouthfuls of the last of the water.
My hunger somewhat placated, I trudge in the general direction of the Citadel, making sure to keep my eyes out for water. A few hours later, I think I hear the telltale sign of water rushing over a fall. I move in the direction of the sound and then stop. My eyes roam over the underbrush. I spot wild rocket and what I think could be cow parsley. There are dandelions and dock sticking out from under a heap of leaves. This can’t be right. The Seeders wouldn’t allow these edible weeds to grow so close to their stronghold. I break off a lobed rocket leaf and crush it in my fingers. It gives off a pungent bitter smell. Definitely rocket.