by E L Stricker
Illya clenched his jaw as he worked. Benja couldn't die; he wouldn't let it happen. There were no red streaks now, and there would be no red streaks. He would get to Samuel, and the Healer would know what to do.
There was an area where a flap of skin had stayed attached at the edge of the wound. Illya had cut away the grossly mangled part on the first night but left that bit, unsure if it would be better or worse to keep it. He dabbed gently at it with the leaves.
The spot sunk under the pressure of his fingers and yellow pus oozed out from under the flap. Frantically, Illya pressed on the skin all around the area. He found more. He cleaned and rinsed, cleaned and rinsed, then collapsed, sagging against the wall of the cave. Benja had caught the ’fection.
Squinting through the glaze of moisture across his vision, he took a handful of clean, soaked yarrow and packed the wound. When the ’fection came, first there would be heat and redness then the puss and fever. After that came red streaks. Death always followed once they came.
He couldn’t carry Benja himself and make good time. Instead, he built a travois much like the one Conna had made for Charlie on the day of the planting.
He had used most of his shirt for bandages and he didn’t have enough cloth to tie the travois together, so he joined the branches with strips of bark soaked in the stream until they were flexible. The idea came when he had remembered Ban, soaking wood to shape it into cups for the water wheel.
It was late afternoon by the time he got Benja on the travois, but Illya didn't care. He would walk all night and all day after that if he had to. He hoisted up the poles and dragged it onto the path.
***
At sunset, Illya didn’t stop. Doggedly, he went on, putting one foot in front of the other, pushing himself forward in a daze, though his head spun with thirst and hunger.
The going was unbearably slow. A journey that would have taken a few hours if he could have run stretched out as he dragged the weight of his unconscious cousin over roots, and uneven ground. After the night chill had burned away, the sun rose hot. Sweat rolled down his forehead into his eyes. His fingers were slippery and numb with the continuous effort of gripping the travois poles, but he pressed on.
It was nearing sunset on the second day when he reached the spot on the riverbank where once he had stayed outside the walls to dig a box from the mud. Illya paused then gently laid Benja down. He scooped up some river water and trickled it onto Benja's forehead to cool him before taking a drink himself.
The wound did not seem to be worse but was no better either. Illya stood. They would be in sight of the gates soon, and he was glad. Benja would be safe, and he would finally face them all.
***
They passed through the gates without meeting anyone. The air felt unnaturally still and thick, pulling into his heaving lungs like molasses. Nothing but the weary creaking of the travois broke the silence.
After a bit, he smelled the fires, heard them crackling, then heard the laughter of the villagers. Benja moaned, stirring for the first time in many miles. Illya tightened his grip.
This was it. Samuel's hut was close, almost in sight now. Please let it not be too late, he prayed silently. Even if there had been a way to avoid the circle, he wouldn't have taken it.
He wanted to face them. It was terrifying, but he wanted it more than anything he had wanted in his life. The weeks of crushing guilt were over.
Illya strode into their midst as if it was just another evening. Everyone stopped talking.
A ripple of whispers followed behind him; the response delayed as the people shook themselves out of their shock and turned to their neighbors to ask if they had indeed seen what they thought they had.
“That's Illya. That's him.”
“But he is dead.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He’s crazy. Why would he come back here?”
Illya lifted his chin, meeting the incredulous stares, and pushed on, dragging the travois step by step. Samuel's hut was visible beyond the circle of firelight. The second hemisphere of the murmuring crowd stood ahead of him, threatening to block his way. He hoped Samuel himself would be somewhere among them and would step out of the crowd, but it was not to be.
“Stop.”
Illya glanced in the direction of the voice. Conna, apparently not affected by the paralysis that had stopped everyone else, was standing up on the steps, his bow fully drawn. He had an arrow aimed directly at the center of Illya's chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ILLYA STOPPED.
Conna’s bow creaked. The door behind him opened, and Impiri emerged, holding an ancient gun. She came to stand beside him.
“I knew it was too good to be true that we had seen the last of him,” she muttered to Conna.
“Let me by,” Illya said, his voice steady. “Let me take Benja to Samuel. Then I'll come back, and you can do whatever you want with me.” He raised his voice as he spoke, pushing past the nerves, hearing it ring out with confidence that it had never had when he had been their Leader.
Conna contemplated this with narrowed eyes, his bow unmoved from its mark. Illya swallowed. Conna only had to let go of the string and the arrow would be buried in his heart.
“Let him. Where is he going to go?” Aaro said. Conna frowned, looking from Illya to Benja and back again. Illya stared him down. There was no fear, just the inevitability of what had to happen.
“Fine,” Conna said finally and lowered his bow. Behind him, Impiri frowned.
“Don’t forget that he is not to be trusted,” she said.
Illya didn't bother to answer. He turned back to his path, put his head down, and pulled, watching the stones of the mosaic passing by under his feet. Only twenty more steps remained, but they seemed to stretch out longer than any part of the journey before. The crowd parted in front of him. No one apparently wanted to take issue, now that Conna had backed down. Instead they stared, their eyes boring into him as he passed.
He passed the oak tree, and there, standing under the canopy of its branches, was Sabelle. She stared at him with wide eyes, her face pale, looking thinner than he remembered. He met her gaze and she dropped her eyes to the ground. On her left hand was a promise ring carved from wood.
Illya gritted his teeth together and went on, telling himself that it didn’t matter, not anymore. He had not slept or eaten in two days. The remainder of his shirt hung in tatters. He was bone tired, filthy, and covered with Benja's blood. He reached the Healer’s hut and kicked the door open. His entire body shook.
Samuel lifted one eyebrow, betraying only mild surprise at the sight of Illya bursting through his door.
“Knew you would come back,” he said.
Together, they moved Benja off his travois onto the pile of skins beside Samuel's fire. Absently, Samuel directed Illya to boil water and to tear fresh bandages. Every so often, he muttered the names of herbs as he unwrapped the old bandages and examined the wound. Illya stared at the Healer's face, his stomach clenching with every crease of his forehead, every frown. He retrieved herbs for Samuel from the shelves on the walls and from the dried bunches hanging from the ceiling.
“You did well,” Samuel said. “It's clean and still no red streaks.” He looked up at Illya with a small smile. The door opened again, pouring light into the dim room and revealing Conna, backed by four Enforcers.
“That's enough. You've got him here,” he said. Illya took a slow breath and shifted his eyes from Samuel to Benja's pale face. He had barely opened his eyes or spoken since they had first left the camp. Illya knew that as difficult as the journey had been for him, for Benja it had been a hundred times worse. He only hoped that the strain of it hadn't been too much.
“He's going to be alright,” Samuel murmured.
Illya met his gaze. The Healer's eyes were sincere but betrayed concern despite the reassuring words.
“Wonderful,” Conna said. “When he's awake, he can answer for breaking out of prison.” He motioned, a
nd the Enforcers surged forward, seizing Illya by the shoulders. They pinned his arm behind his back and propelled him away from Benja and Samuel, out of the hut, back to the crowd at the center fire.
Illya did not struggle. He had promised that he would come. It was only fair that he be judged for his actions.
He stood below the stairs, the sea of angry faces only a few feet away. Behind him, on the stairs, Conna was speaking.
“You all know what he deserves,” he yelled. It could have been his imagination, but Illya thought that he heard an edge of panic behind Conna's words.
“This summer was all we had. He lied to you. It is his fault that all we have to show for it is that field out there,” Conna said. To the west of the circle, beyond a few rows of huts, was the field. Illya's mouth went dry. The rays of the setting sun illuminated it, making it glow with a sick beauty. Where there had been row after row of waist-high plants, full of promise, now there was a mat of withered leaves and white-coated stems.
“Banishment wasn't enough for him,” Conna said. From behind him, Illya heard the creak of a bow being drawn. “This time, we have to make sure he isn't coming back.” Illya knew that there was no point in defending himself. Denial would be hollow in the face of their anger and despair.
“You want justice?” he asked. “You should have justice. It's only right.” Behind him, the bow creaked, but no twang and piercing ending followed the sound. Conna must have been waiting for the crowd's approval before he released the arrow.
Illya took that moment while they hesitated, confusion at his easy capitulation warring with their anger, to pull up a vine from the ground. It was a plant that grew everywhere, even pushing up between the stones of the mosaic.
He raised his fist high for all of them to see it: the red-stemmed creeper, first of the malice plants.
Illya stuffed the creeper into his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed it down.
The villagers jostled each other, fighting for a clear view of what would happen next. Their murmurs swelled louder. No one knew how the creeper killed. No one had eaten one of the malice plants within any of their lifetimes.
Would it drop him quickly? Would he stagger about, frothing at the mouth, his face purple as he choked to death? Or would he double over as his stomach cramped up in agony?
Illya glanced back over his shoulder at Conna, who had lowered his bow and was gaping at Illya with his mouth hanging open.
Nothing happened.
The moments stretched out as the people goggled at him, wild-eyed, whispering to their friends. Illya felt nothing, no sign that he was about to drop dead in the middle of the square.
He smiled. An absurd urge bubbled up inside him, filling him with wild, giddy feelings and the overwhelming need to laugh. He chuckled then laughed out loud. The people stared, no doubt wondering if this was the way the plant killed: an excess of joy.
But Illya was not dying. He felt wonderful. It was the first time he had eaten in days, since the night before the missed trap when he had eaten a tiny bit of a fish he had caught for Benja.
He pushed people aside and ran to the place in the mosaic. He knew what he would find, though he had not looked at it since the night of the first shoots, since the night it had been impressed on his calf when he watched Sabelle. There, beside the cattail root and the spring ramp, only a short distance from the sunchoke itself: the red-stemmed creeper was laid out in tiny stones.
“This plant!” he yelled, pulling more of it up from the ground. The creeper was everywhere. There was even a little vine of it coming up to overlap its stone counterpart.
“This is a plant for eating,” he said, holding it up in the air. “I haven't died yet, and I'm not going to die. Look, all of you! It is right here in the mosaic. This picture is a cornucopia. It was made to celebrate a fat time when our ancestors had enough to eat.” He looked around. Their faces were shocked, disbelieving.
“That can't be right,” Charlie muttered.
“You think I'm crazy,” Illya said. “I know what you are all thinking. It's on the wall.” The villagers gawked at him, some nodding, others simply staring in confusion.
Clearly, most of them still thought that he was bound to drop dead at any moment. But more and more time was passing since he had eaten the plant. Without evidence to the contrary appearing, soon they would have to start considering that he could be right.
Illya walked to the fire. The crowd parted for him with fear, as if he was a ghost. It was true in a way, he thought. He had gone out and survived the night and now was back among them. He had eaten the creeper and should be dying now, but that wasn’t happening either. He grabbed the end of a half-burned stick from the edge of the fire pit and pulled it out.
Using the charred end of his stick, he drew a shaky symbol on the stones of the square.
?
“This,” he said, “we have always thought it was a fern fiddlehead, but no one could ever say what that little dot was. A slip of the chisel we always said, right?” He looked around. They were listening.
“It's not a plant. It is a symbol. I saw it all through the book.” At the mention of the book, a few people grumbled. Illya held up his hands.
“I know you don't trust me. The book has brought nothing but trouble. But listen. The people who made that wall still knew how to read. They would have known this symbol.” Illya took a breath.
“Wherever I saw it in the book, it came after a question, something they didn’t know. It's a mark, an unsure mark,” he said and paused, letting the meaning of his words sink in.
“There are two plants beside it on the wall. The creeper and the mushroom. One of those plants is in the cornucopia and the other isn't. Someone must have eaten them both on the same day. Maybe they died, and the people didn't know which one had the malice. No one would have wanted to risk trying it again. But there was a time when someone put the creeper here, to celebrate that it was food.”
By now, more than enough time had passed that something should have happened to him if the creeper had malice. Below it on the wall was lace top; a plant that would freeze the body and steal the breath in minutes according to legend.
Illya pulled up another handful of the creeper, stuffed it into his mouth, and swallowed.
“You can wait as long as you need to see that I come to no harm from it. Once you believe me, you will also see that this is what is going to get us through the winter.”
All around eyes widened, followed by a hum of voices. The creeper was everywhere, it grew in the smallest cracks and spread across the ground. If everyone gathered it, with the meat smoking beside the fire, there would be enough food to see them through.
“That doesn't change what he did,” Conna yelled, his face red and furious. He must have sensed the shift in the crowd, how they now clustered around Illya with curiosity, their urge to punish him fading. He seemed afraid to raise his bow again. Instead, he whirled around and pointed at the field of dead plants.
“He lied to us. Remember what happened the last time we trusted something from that book of his.”
“I did,” Illya said. “I found the parent plants with disease and said nothing. It was only because I hoped that it would not happen here. If it hadn't, we would be digging sunchokes now.” He dropped his eyes. The full magnitude of what they had lost, the security, the hope, hit him with a wave of piercing sorrow.
“What Conna didn't tell you is that I had come to tell everyone about it that morning and he spoke first.” Illya turned on Conna and fixed him with a stare. He narrowed his eyes, daring Conna to do what needed to be done, to come out with everything, to face it all. Conna broke the stare and shifted his gaze around, catching the eyes of the handful of Enforcers who were standing nearby.
“You won't admit it to them?” Illya asked, his words gaining strength. He took a breath. Around him the people looked from him to Conna and back again. Conna pressed his lips together.
“If they are stupid enough to forget what you hav
e done, it won’t be on me,” Conna said.
Beyond the barren field, the golden grass swayed in the wind. There was silence, filled, as silence often is, with small sounds. Crickets in the grasses, the rustling leaves of the oak tree above them, the small shuffling and continual arranging of the people shifting their weight and looking to see what their neighbors would do.
No one wanted to be the first to act.
He looked from face to face. There were some there who were intelligent enough to know he was right, who wouldn’t be swept away by hysteria, he was sure of it.
Charlie, he thought, surely would be on his side, but the man didn’t meet his eye.
He had not forgiven Illya for the Soil-Digger fiasco. It hadn’t been Illya’s idea either, but he couldn’t know that.
Ban was in the crowd, and Illya looked to him hopefully, but he was deep in conversation in low tones with another man.
The silence stretched on.
“What about the people in the cellar, people who haven’t done anything wrong?” Illya asked.
“What will happen in midwinter? Will the food still be shared with them when people begin starving? Or will they be left to starve?”
The silence thickened.
Aaro stepped out from behind Conna. Slowly, he walked across the square, darting a swift glance over his shoulder at his brother as he passed. Illya tensed as he neared, but something about the boy’s face made him pause. His eyes were hard and his jaw was clenched, working visibly. He met Illya’s eyes, pressed his lips together, and nodded. He stood beside Illya and turned to face his brother.
Sometimes, love counted for more than fear.
Conna’s face went pale. His mouth opened, and closed, and opened again.
“How can you…” he said.
“You can’t keep Pa in there,” Aaro said.
“After everything, you stand for him?” Conna spat back.
Aaro shrugged, “Maybe I just don’t want to be like him. No one else is going to get hurt,” Aaro said.
