by E L Stricker
“Maybe it brings curses and maybe it doesn't,” said a man's voice. “What matters is what are we going to do about it?”
“I don't know about this,” another woman said.
“What do mean? You agreed this afternoon when I asked you to come,” the first voice pleaded. Illya listened again. His heart plummeted as he recognized what he should have known instantly. It was his Aunt Ada.
He had locked up her son; betrayed her in the worst possible way. He deserved her anger, expected it. But still, her defection hit him deeply, worse than even Charlie's had done.
“That book has power. You have to agree. He knew about that flood. Saved everyone that day,” the second woman said, her tone lowering in awe towards the end.
“That doesn't change that I want to be a hunter again someday,” Charlie said. “And my son, my boy should learn to hunt too. The way things are, he never will. He won't ever do anything but dig the fields. Doesn't feel right.”
“If the book is from the gods, we shouldn't go against what it says,” the woman answered.
“It's not from the gods. It's from the Olders. And what did they know?” Ada said.
“Well, you can't read it, can you?” the woman said. Illya should have felt happy to hear someone defending him, but, instead, the woman's stubborn belief in him made him feel worse than ever. No one would be defending him for long.
At any moment, one of them could look at the plants too closely. Bits of white dust could have even flaked off and landed on their shoes.
“Of course not.” Ada sighed. “It doesn't matter. What does is what he is doing, not why. I've known that boy since he was no more than a twinkle, and he isn't himself, none of this is like him.”
“We don't need to argue. What we need are more people. We can't do anything violent, not with those Enforcers. I don't want anyone to get hurt. We should keep this quiet, just talk to as many as we can, see who might join us. If we can get enough, we can confront the Leader with that. He won't be able to ignore us then,” Charlie said. Illya had heard enough; he crept away.
***
He got up before dawn, although his vision was blurred and his head was groggy from the late night. He dreamed of the disease taking over, spreading so rapidly he could see it advancing across the leaves. But when he got to the field, the white growth was minimal; there was still time. Relief hit him with unexpected intensity, and he sank to his knees among the plants, forgetting to care if anyone could see him.
After a while, he pulled himself together and dunked his head in the water of the irrigation trough. With new resolve, he made his way to the breakfast fires, determined to take control of the situation. On his way, he passed the stone house.
He stopped in the path. Benja was in there. Illya stared at the light of the sunrise glinting off the bits of broken glass still stuck in the edges of its boarded windows. He wondered if he should go inside and see him.
People walking by looked at him curiously.
Illya tapped his foot on the ground. Water ran off his hair and dripped into the dust at his feet.
It would do no good to go in, he decided. Nothing could come of it besides more yelling. He would deserve it, but it couldn't do anything to help now. He ducked his head and turned away.
Footsteps approached, and he turned to see Sabelle. Dawn had barely reached the top of the full-leafed maple. Morning sun, lancing through the mist, danced on the grass she was crossing as if its purpose was to light up the places where her feet stepped.
She looked up as she came near. Her face was streaked with soot. For the first time, he noticed that her clothes were heavily stained from the work of cooking. From her fingers to her sleeves, rolled up at the elbow, her skin was red from scrubbing pots and working in the heat.
He swallowed. She was still beautiful underneath the soot. She smiled at him. It hit him in the belly with the force of a punch. Despite it all, she still had a smile for him. She still thought that he was trying to do something good. His stomach clenched in shame.
“Hi,” she said.
The small smile was devastating. Soon, Illya would have no choice but to tell everyone about the disease, whether he had a plan to fix it or not. When that happened, the smile would be gone. He was sure of it.
Suddenly, he realized he would never have a better chance than this moment to tell her how he felt.
In a few days, he was going to die. He could see no way around it.
She might like Conna better; she might even laugh at him. But going to his death and never letting her know would be much worse.
Illya reached out and took her hand. The skin of her palm was rough from work. The morning air was cool and smelled like damp grass. He held her hand in his carefully.
“I'm sorry,” he said, wanting to tell her everything, to apologize before it was too late.
Her eyes were wide and very blue. They held his gaze; though the little smile faded. She did not drop his hand.
“Why?” she asked.
His voice caught, and he found that he couldn't answer. He shook his head.
“You've always done what you had to do,” she said, gazing up at him. Without stopping to think, he leaned in closer to her. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes burned with intensity.
Suddenly, she met him. Her lips were soft on his. She smelled like dew and campfire smoke. Wisps of her hair tickled the sides of his face.
He never wanted it to end. Energy pulsed through him. It was like riding the bicycle down the mountainside without wrecking once.
When she drew away, he let her, not wanting to push his luck. She giggled.
Her eyes darted around, afraid to meet his. He was smiling so wide that his lips had stuck to his teeth. He ducked his head away awkwardly. She gently pulled her hand away from his.
“Well, um, I have to go,” she said and gave him a look over her shoulder as she walked away that made it seem like there was a joke that only they knew. His head whirled. His spirits soared, far removed from the crushing guilt that had laid over him for days.
He had kissed Sabelle! The realization of it struck him a bit belatedly. His stomach fluttered, and his smile stretched from ear to ear. For a few moments, he was someone else. Someone who had not led his village to starvation with a stupid scheme.
But to go from despair to soaring so high only made the fall back down to Earth worse than ever when it came.
Soon, she would find out about the mold, and she would hate him. After that, he would die, and she would starve along with everyone else.
***
Illya found Conna sitting beside the Enforcers' fire with Aaro that evening. He had spent the entire day searching through the book one more time for a cure for the mold, but there still was nothing to be found. His adviser had always been able to come up with ideas before now. As much as Illya didn't want to involve anyone else, he was quickly running out of options.
Shockingly, Conna smirked when Illya asked to speak to him alone.
“Sabelle?” he asked with a knowing voice once Illya had shut his door.
“What?” It was the last thing Illya had expected to hear.
“Everyone is talking about it. Word gets around.”
“But no one else was there,” Illya protested. It bothered him to think of everyone talking about him and Sabelle. It had felt like their secret. A sweet thing he could keep to redeem a little of the devastation of the past few days.
“She probably told her friends. She's a girl. That's what they do,” Conna said.
Illya scowled. “Humph.” He hesitated before saying more, wondering again if it was right to say anything to Conna. He sighed, and his shoulders fell. There was no other way.
“We have a problem,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The plants are diseased.”
Conna wrinkled his forehead as if he didn't understand.
“I went to look at the original ones. They're grown over with mold. They are all dead,” he said. Conna's eyebrows pulled toget
her so tight that a chasm of skin appeared between them.
“It showed up on our plants yesterday.” Illya paused, chewing on the inside of his lip. “They are going to die.”
Conna's eyebrows flew up. “You have got to be kidding!” he whispered.
Illya shook his head, wishing with a profound desperation that he was.
“No,” Conna said, shaking his head and backing up several steps. The color drained from his face.
“Unless we can think of another plan, there's going to be nothing at harvest time,” Illya said.
“This is bad,” Conna said. He ran his hands through his hair. “Really bad.”
“We have to tell them about it,” Illya said.
Conna's eyes widened. He shook his head with vehemence. “We can't say anything!” he whispered.
“They are going to find out soon. It's small, but it's going to spread,” Illya said.
Conna glared at him and shook his head again as if he refused to believe it. “You know what they'll do to us.”
“I know.” Illya sighed. “I heard some of them talking last night. They are trying to get support to take the leadership from us. But if we can think of a way to fix things, they might be willing to listen. . . I thought about planting again.”
Conna frowned and crossed his arms. “There isn't time. At the rate that those plants have grown so far, new ones wouldn't be big enough before the frost,” he said.
“So, we think of something else,” Illya answered.
Conna let out his breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Alright,” he said, “I'll think of something, but you have to give me some time.”
“We don't have much time. Soon the white will spread enough that someone will notice it,” Illya said.
Conna looked at his feet and paused before continuing.
“I'm just . . . fuzzy headed tonight,” he said, sounding ashamed. “A little too much of that brew, my head isn't working right.”
“Fine,” Illya said. “Tomorrow, when it wears off, we’ll talk again. We have to think of something.” Conna was staring the ground in anger, or perhaps it was shame.
Illya put his hand on Conna's shoulder. “It's okay,” he said. “No matter what happens, it's me they're going to be mad at anyway.” He tried to laugh and failed. Things could be worse, he thought. At least there was one friend left who still considered himself that.
“Go get some sleep,” Illya said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ILLYA HAD NEVER really been asleep, but at a certain point his eyes opened, and he knew. There could be no more waiting.
He had already waited for three days, doing nothing while the disease had advanced. Three fruitless days where he had done nothing but ignore the catastrophe that could kill them all. He sat up, wide awake in the dim light, with a conviction that he could not go a step further if the steps were leading his people in this way.
His people. He had never thought of them quite in that way. In his mind, they had been something like adversaries all along; people to influence, to bring along, to push and pull and change. The thought filled him with shame. His people! They were the people he led, who he was responsible for, and who he was letting down.
Sabelle's soot-streaked face swam in his thoughts; then the thought of Benja sitting in his cell; Charlie's humble pride over the plants that were doomed; the people meeting in the dark, plotting against him, but only wanting him to see, to listen to them. Samuel was right, and his mother too, and Benja.
All of them were right. He had made a terrible mistake. It didn't matter what the villagers did to him when they found out. He couldn't leave it for another moment.
He tried to get up and found his muscles would not obey him. They could do anything at all: death, dismemberment, little things like that. The fear of it was real enough to evoke a physical response in a direct argument with his convictions.
But there was no other choice. Illya did not have a magical plan to save them all, and he knew now that they would not find one. He was not a prophet, and the book was just a book, the random thoughts of a people long gone. All he could do was tell the truth and hope that they had enough time left to figure something out. With everyone working together, they could still have a chance; maybe Conna would find a way for them after all, but they couldn't afford to lose another day.
Sweating and shaking, Illya swung his feet over the edge of his furs and wiped his hands off on his thigh, adding minuscule wear to the hand-shaped tracks already on his pants. As if getting all the sweat off could solve the problem.
After that, all that remained were the small, practical actions that would bring him to the end. They were ordinary things that he didn't usually think about, but he now found himself focusing on each moment with peculiar intensity.
Out of bed.
One foot in front of the other. Ignore the dread. Wipe your hands. Force yourself forward, keep walking, splash water on your face. Swallow the lump in your throat, keep walking, smooth your hair. Wipe your hands again. Sweat is your only enemy now. Keep going.
He considered it could be the last time he walked through his door or any door at all. He shook the thought away.
Don't think about that. Place your right foot in front of your left. Reach the path outside the hut. Let your feet take over. Pick up one and then the other.
The dread was growing; it couldn't be swallowed back. He thought it might paralyze him, stop him in his tracks. He wiped away the sweat again.
Face the dread.
What is the worst thing that could happen? he asked himself.
They could riot.
Will you survive?
Maybe. Probably not.
But they all might survive, in the end.
Face it down. Keep going.
He hesitated again at the edge of the mosaic by the fires, cold in the early pre-dawn light. The irony of the cornucopia, spilling over with food, struck him as particularly cruel in the middle of this starving village. He thought of the maker of the mosaic and the people who had first settled here. What would they think of it now?
The square was still empty, and he breathed for a moment, feeling the stillness of what was undoubtedly nothing but the pause before the storm. In a way, he was just like that mosaic maker; a man who dreamed too large. It was not such an awful crime, to dream.
He came to the rusted metal can beside the fires. It was there in case the villagers ever needed to be called together urgently. Illya could only remember it beaten a handful of times in his lifetime. Once for a fire that had consumed half the huts in the time before they had begun building them farther apart.
To beat it now would be to admit that it was an emergency; that his directions had steered them all down a path so dangerous they may not reach safety. But the only choice left was honesty. He would tell them everything, present himself for their justice and hope that it counted for something.
He picked up the thick branch that lay on the can.
It was like jumping off a cliff. You couldn't think about it, especially not about the splat at the end. Jerking and spastic, he beat the branch against the round of metal with cacophonous urgency.
Minutes later, they were all there. Conna was the first; he stood beside Illya with a supportive smile that Illya barely registered. Sleepily, they trickled in straight from their beds, and Illya faked it a little more. He smiled, unwilling to betray anything as they gathered.
Then they were all there, watching him.
He stepped up onto the stairs. Conna watched him sideways. Illya wondered if he saw the shake behind his smile, how he was swallowing too many times, the way he wiped his hand too casually down his thigh. Like jumping off a cliff.
Suddenly, Conna pushed past him and jumped onto the stairs.
Conna would introduce him then, Illya thought, a little relieved. Someone would stand beside him.
“I have called you here this morning to tell you of a traitor in our midst and to give you the chance to judg
e him!” Conna's voice rose. Illya was stunned; grumbling rose in the crowd. Before he could react, Conna pushed on.
“I have heard a confession from this man,” he yelled, pointing at Illya, “who you have called your Leader, who you have trusted with the village, your lives, your future!
“Who you allowed to change your whole world, to dictate the future of your children!” Conna's voice rose to a frantic pitch and cracked.
“This man has lied to you! His crops will never be harvested. They're infected with a disease and soon they will all die. He told me that he found the father plants dead. He has known about this and said nothing.
“He is leading you into starvation. He did all of this to keep his power over you, knowing full well that in a short time it will be winter and we will have nothing to eat!”
The crowd stared.
“Traitor!” someone yelled.
It was like a spark to a field of dry grass. Suddenly, all of them were calling, “Traitor, traitor, traitor!” The cries blended into a roar. They pushed at each other to grab at him.
Illya stumbled backward and jumped off the side of the stairs, putting them between him and most of the mob. He was too stunned to pull his thoughts together. All around was a blur of angry faces, advancing. Then Conna struck him across the jaw with his fist and he reeled, nearly falling.
“You!” Conna bellowed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“It's true,” Illya stuttered. “But I didn't. . .“ He froze, unable to find the right words.
“I mean I came this morning to tell you, it wasn't him that called you at all!” He was shaking, his jaw throbbed, and he tasted blood. He couldn't remember what he had been planning to say.
“I hoped we could find a way to save the plants, but it's no use, it's true, they will die.”
“We are going to starve!” Dianthe howled. Then Conna spoke, calm over the angry crowd, his voice full of conviction.
“We have to push this traitor out of the village. We have been taken in by his poisonous ideas, his book, and his lies!” The crowd whooped and screamed in support.
