by K.N. Lee
There was no mercy, not from the dogs of war. Not if we are discovered. Only death follows the sirens. Death or escape.
Both pathways lay wide open before her.
Papa cleared his throat, trying not to cough.
On the other side of the fake wall, the steerage passengers chatted nervously. Mathilde could hear their muffled words:
“Why are the police coming? What should we do?”
“Do you have your papers, Marcel?”
“Yes, Claude, I have everything. Bejn?”
“Yes, of course,” the stranger’s answer mingled with the sound of digging through luggage. The edge of panic in his voice was obvious. “Here. Here, I have them, thank the Heavens.”
A woman burst out crying.
“Now, listen up. When they board—not a word, not a toe out of line.”
The grizzled captain tried to calm the nervous passengers with information. “This is all they need to know: we are headed for the port of Norwava. And from there, we will look for work in the fishing industry. We have nothing to fear. We are law-abiding citizens. Not criminals.
“Everyone knows, the police only search the outgoing vessels for the trash. We are not one of the vidaya. The police cast their nets wide. Rest assured, they don’t look for trouble, not from the likes of us.”
Mathilde Shawsman couldn’t agree with the captain. The harsh truth was: the dogs of war come. They search for me. They will not let a silly thing like oceans stop their mission: to attack and destroy us all.
Hidden in the secret compartment, she couldn’t speak. Now more than ever: discovery equalled death. Tucked like insulation in between the hull and the inner wall of the ship’s cabins, she huddled, breathless. Vidaya-named, and running for her life. There was no place far enough.
Scared, Mathilde cowered in the dark.
Packed in like sardines, she and Papa hid side by side. Mama was on the other side of the hull, concealed with the twins. This boat, this passage was their chance to survive. Our last remaining attempt. Ahead, there is only escape or death.
Above the sound of ropes being thrown, strange boots stomped on the thick wood planks that covered their heads.
“Papers!” the harbor officer demanded. His rough voice carried throughout the ship, rattling the bones of the hull. Mathilde could not stop shivering. That was the only sign her body gave of the stress. The threat of discovery was far, far worse.
Pa cleared his throat again, as softly as he could.
A door slammed above them. Possibly to the cockpit, it sounded like?
Mathilde prayed. To the God with the holy name, whose name was never spoken. The only one who could shield her family from the prying eyes and ears of the searching police. Their final hope. She prayed in the dark and waited for their dwindling chance at freedom.
Mathilde did not have much light to see by.
A tiny crack overhead shone blue and then red as the police boat’s siren flashed its alarm nearby. In the dim shadows, her pleading face was barely visible. With her imploring gaze, Mathilde silently begged her father. Don’t cough. Please P-Pa. Don’t cough. Just hold on. Stay still. Only a few more minutes.
Mathilde closed her eyes and recited the ancient prayer of salvation and gratitude: Lord save us. Lord set us free. Lord keep us. Lord stronger each day, by thee united. With her eyes closed, she could see her two older brothers reciting the words. Invoking sacred rituals, prayer was not a gift for women. Ethan and Edgar’s faces were sharp in her memory. She said the sacred prayer along with their ghosts.
She did not move as the wooden boat lurched, halted by the police inspection.
Alarmed, constantly on edge, Mathilde quickly tired. Fear was exhausting.
Her arms cramped. A tingling sensation filled her legs, soon deadened to all feeling. There was no shifting of weight. If she lost balance, her body would fall over. The noise—their undoing. There was only a tiny hope, if she could stay frozen in place.
Still as the dead, Mathilde waited for the harbor police to finish. For them to leave the boat, moving on, pursuing other suspicions. Catch someone else. Anyone. Anything to change the dogs’ focused search far away from the tiny bit of shelter in the midst of the raging sea and the bitter cleansings of neighborhoods hiding suspected vidaya.
Minutes stretched on and on.
Finally, a gruff voice spoke loudly, almost on top of her. “Seems all clear. You need to re-register the licenses next month. Be aware that we will not be lenient if you fail to follow the laws. This is war. Your ferry permit is a privilege that can be revoked.”
In response, the captain murmured.
Mathilde couldn’t understand his words, but the tone of his reply was compliant and scared. Whatever he said was laced with humility and politeness. The captain held the payment for smuggling trash. He knew the rules as well as the consequences of getting caught. He would be thrown into the disposal trains along with any stowaways.
No one ever came back from the long journey through the Methanlos train tracks.
Mathilde hoped the money her parents had paid would be enough to buy the man’s silence in the face of such great fear. Never before had she considered silence to be so valuable.
Then again, she had never tried to escape men who hated her because of the color of her hair.
Hunted, captured, and destroyed because she was not like them.
Brilliant red hair fell in waves down her back, held by braids and carefully knotted away from her face. For the Hollyoaken people, Red was the sign of Haitan, the great unspoken evil that never stopped. Red was pure destruction. And the worst part? Brown dye only covered the color for a few days.
It had been three months since anyone had been allowed to purchase hair dye. Supplies dried up. Two months ago, the round ups and inspections began.
Nowhere to hide, the only option the Shawsmans had to protect their three surviving children was to flee in the dark of night across the frozen water. Escaping the nation state of Hollyoaks, they prayed that somewhere beyond Norwava was a country that would shelter a band of gypsies and not see them as trash to be discarded.
That last part was the kicker.
They say I am trash.
Therefore, she could not be allowed to live amongst the good people of Hollyoaks. The premiere Charles Hoydenst had ensured that there was no tolerance for people who did not conform. ‘Unity is All,’ so every poster declared. The message blanketed the streets, pasted on every wall, stuck on every door. Unity meant not being different. Don’t get noticed, blending into the crowds. Everyone conformed. Safety.
Frightened, every hint of the people named ‘trash’ disappeared.
According to the posters, Hollyoaks grew stronger with each passing day, clear of the rubbish. Differences were not allowed. That was a problem because Mathilde was different. Her flaming red hair declared her heritage. Marked her and her two older brothers for the death train.
Still.
Still and quiet as the dead. Mathilde told her body as it rebelled from the unnatural pose. Just a little longer.
Next to her hiding spot, Mathilde could just see her father holding a dull white handkerchief to his face, willing the terrible cough that had plagued him for the last two months to cease. Willing his scarred lungs to obey, he fought for air, trying to remain hidden.
Three pairs of boots stomped off the deck above her head, each one the creak of a whip across her back. Each one taking with it the dread of discovery and the blinding fear that held them still.
Abruptly, the siren turned off. Loud thunks against the deck told her that the ropes were disengaged. The other boat‘s engine revved as the harbor police sped away, continuing their search for trash like her.
I am disposable. To them, I am the disease.
Mathilde let out a deep breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Grateful. Hopeful. That was the last patrol. And that meant freedom. Freedom was next. The country of Berndsand lay ahead across the towering waves of the
coming storm. “We made it, Papa,” she whispered. “We made it. We are free. Safe.”
Papa didn’t answer.
His powerful hands held the cloth over his nose and mouth, muffling any sound. For the last two months, he had been desperate to keep them safe. With the heart of a trapped lion, he had refused to bow to the hatred of the Hollyoaken dogs.
When Ethan and Edgar went missing on their way home from school, Pa’s heart had broken. Gloom settled over their house. And the whole family made preparations to run. Through it all, Pa’s hacking, persistent cough had kept them awake for the last month.
Now there was nothing.
She hadn’t heard his cough for a while. Not since the police boarded the boat. Almost free, she thought, concentrating on that one, shining goal. Almost safe. Don’t cough.
“Papa?” Mathilde whispered. Reaching out one hand, she felt his fingers, squeezing them tight. He didn’t respond.
He was always careful to avoid detection.
When the danger was truly over, there was a creak of the lock and buttons that held their hideaway sealed shut. The false wall swung open. The light was so bright even the gray clouds hurt to look at. As if they stared at the the sun. Mathilde blinked and blinked, trying to adjust to the gloomy daylight.
“It’s clear for now. You are safe. Take a moment and relax. In an hour, you’ll need to clamber back inside for the docking at Hardenholm. Best stretch your legs while you can.”
Down below, the first mate muttered. The other passengers, the legal ones, stood up on the deck. They didn’t want to know who else was onboard. They ignored the signs because the captain charged only two thirds of what any other boat asked for passage fee.
Mathilde dared stand. She stepped right outside the cramped hidden spaces. She couldn’t see much. But discovery was dangerous. So she stretched her tingling arms and legs and waited for Papa to step out behind her, for the reassurance of his touch.
But he did not emerge.
He didn’t move from their hiding place. And he hadn’t coughed for a long time. Mathilde realized. He must have fallen asleep. Best not to wake him then. Best not to wake anyone to the fear that drove the trash into hiding.
A knock on the far door signalled the end of the momentary freedom. The end of sunlight. Back into the shadows. Running away by standing still. Fleeing out of the country by being canned like pickled fish, submerged in the darkness, confined by fear and ugliness.
Cloaked in ignorance, the passengers of the fishing boat offered no safety at all. Safety was a lie. Mathilde knew that now.
Climbing back into the false wall, she could do nothing but hold her hand against her father’s coat and pray the journey ended soon.
Hours later.
Might as well have been centuries gone by, finally the boat came to rest, roped into the dock. One by one, the passengers exited the boat. She counted every sound. The cargo was off loaded. All the people vanished from the dock. Then an eerie silence fell over the boat and the nearby wooden planks. Mathilde imagined she heard the ghost of every fisherman who had walked the decks. Someone will come.
There was no outside noise. No release.
Mathilde didn’t dare make a sound. Father didn’t move. Mother and the twins stayed hidden. Even here, the dogs of war had spies.
It was his whistle that announced their rescuer’s arrival. Runners were hired to move blackmarket cargo. This stranger was equal parts cut-throat and scoundrel. Completely untrustworthy, she knew he would abandon their family at the slightest whiff of trouble. Money bought his silence, and the captain’s before him, but there was precious little honor among thieves. And that’s before the smugglers found out any of our secrets. Then the price of safety would quickly escalate...
Mathilde frowned. Tell them nothing, she reminded herself sternly. We are just refugees, escaping the uprisings in Breke. We are not worth your time. Not illegal, two little boys, a man and wife and one scrawny girl—obviously not contraband.
The peculiar whistle continued as the stranger approached.
No one tucked away within the cargo hold made a sound. Either the man was their contact or not. They could not risk giving away the first sound. What if we guess wrong?
Mathilde shut her eyes tight, impatient, terrified.
Her mouth moved silently, “Please. Please. Please.” Words to no one. It would take an angel to rescue her family. And even angels can’t bring back the dead.
The panel that hid her behind the fake wall slid open.
A stranger’s hand held palm up. It glowed in the moonlight shining down from the deck.
Gingerly, she placed her hand in his, an act of great courage.
Pulling her out of the wall, the man worked in the shadows. All Mathilde could tell was that under the fisherman’s cap, were a few locks of straight hair. He was taller than her. Wide of shoulder. Built like he worked the docks for a living wage, the stranger was quiet other than a quick, “Good?” question to each of the hidden immigrants.
Mathilde nodded when he asked her how she felt. Good was not an answer. Neither was ‘Safe.’ Or ‘Free.’ Those would come later. If...
Waiting for Papa to emerge, Mathilde stretched her legs one at a time while clinging to a support beam.
“We might need to run soon. Best be prepared.” That’s what Papa always said. Here’s the proof he was right. Smart man. Smartest man in the world, Mathilde smiled.
Reaching back inside the wall, she searched for her father’s hand. It was cold. Cold enough to scare her. Too cold. Chill to the touch. A feeling of dread swept across her skin.
He didn’t move. Even when Mathilde risked whispering, “Papa? We’re here...” Still, he didn’t move. One hand held the cloth over his mouth and nose. And then, that hand fell lifeless to his side.
Unbalanced, his body fell over. He did not even try to protect his face. That was when she finally accepted the hard fact: Papa was dead.
Stone cold dead.
Mama rushed over, crouching down. With sure hands, she checked for the heartbeat pulse near his jaw. Placing her ear above his nose and mouth, she listened for any sign of breath. She looked at something near his tongue.
And then, Mama pulled the cloth out of his mouth. An awful lot of cloth. Enough that they knew what he had done.
Papa had suffocated the cough. Saving Us.
At the cost of his own life.
Mama started shaking. No keening came but the grief carved deep into her face the shock of his death.
Behind them, the stranger mumbled. Oblivious to the death. Or unable to do anything about it, the man ignored her papa’s dead body. “Come,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Standing in the cabin doorway, his words were not a request. It was their last chance. Her family had to survive. Who knew how many vidaya would escape the hold of the mysterious trains?
Norwava was not far enough beyond the reach of the harbor police or the dogs of war that rode with the Hollyoaken forces. Not far enough for safety. They were still within easy reach of the trash pickers, bounty hunters, and the death trains.
Mathilde couldn’t cry. All her tears were locked down, deep in her chest.
Holding Papa’s lifeless hand, she was too stunned to do anything else. There was one thing he made her promise. One thing she had to do.
His only daughter shook as she reached inside his inner coat pocket and took out a wrapped package. Worth more than her puny life: Vidaya writings. Priceless. Mathilde held her father’s copy of the teachings of the last ten Vidartan priests, sealed in protective wax.
She held magic in her hands.
Useless without a scholar. Just a collection of nonsensical writings, without proper training. Only men were ever taught the holy words. Ethan and Evan knew. The dead don’t have much call for reading. The book was nothing she could use. It is not my place.
But I can guard the truth.
Gently, she closed her father’s glazed eyes. Devastated, Mathilde looked aroun
d for a sign, peering into the heavy shadows.
Her little brothers stood there, next to the door, confused and helpless.
Mathilde grasped her mother’s shoulder.
Whispering fiercely, she urged Mama to hear her urgent words, cutting through the muddy grip of sorrow. “Mama. We must.” She struggled to find the right thing to say. “For Johan and Fritz. We have to go. Now.”
Mathilde did not relent.
She pulled her mother away from the cold body. She refused. Together, they left Papa lying among the barrels and crates of illegal transport. Gone.
“Ready,” the shaking girl manage to say quietly as she stepped past the stranger’s waiting form. A brother clung to each hand making balance difficult.
The man who set them free did not speak.
Every moment increased the chance of being caught.
Quicker than a jackrabbit, he turned and sped through the boat, retracing the steps they had used when she boarded. But he did not guide them to the main gangplank. Instead, he took the bewildered refugees to the other side of the boat, to the flimsy exit ramp that only the officers used.
Fritz and Johan clung to Mathilde and her mother as they struggled to follow staying low, blending into the shadows when they could.
He led them to the edge of the dock.
A small boat was tied off with a thin rope.
“Get in,” the crewman said. His brown eyes were sharp as he looked around, watching for any witnesses. Mama stumbled into the waiting boat first. Each boy was roughly guided into place.
Mathilde was left standing on the shifting dock, the last to board.
“Thank you,” she said, looking the stranger full in the face. She felt a deep gratitude to this man who risked so much for strangers.
She meant to say more but her words faltered when her gaze met his.
Taller than she was by a few inches, she could feel the man stiffen in surprise. His breath caught, as soon as he looked directly at her. A flush of red crept up her cheeks. Ashamed at the force of his attention, Mathilde could not stop staring at the man. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from his chiseled chin, his sharp jaw, the hawk-like curve of his nose.
