Chapter 4 The Secret in the Hidden Cave
From the ninth page of the first Ledger:
The peoples of the old desert, driven east by cloud and famine, hide themselves in caves and cities dug under barren forests. They bring their rituals, sins, and sacrifices, but believe not in any God.
LYDIA FOUGHT FOR composure with each step down, doubling her determination. These people were neither Bluezools nor ordinary Blues. She hadn’t noticed a tattoo on the man she followed down the steps and Amal’s arms were free of markings. For a brief instant she hoped they were some of Ronel’s people, or a misguided group of resistance fighters, or even pre-Suppression activists. But no, there were no tattooed elbows here. No sympathy for Reds. No sympathy for her.
Amal shoved her into a musty room with a single light in the ceiling. He cautioned her to keep away from the door, then he closed it. She heard something thump against the other side and assumed he barred it. She ignored his warning and moved to the hinged edge of the door. She listened, heard nothing, and ventured to put a shaky hand on the frame. There was a soft vibration, like a cat’s purr. She reached for the knob, hesitated, then stepped back and opened her belt sack. They hadn’t searched her. She pulled out her oldest possession: an antique metal comb with a long, narrow handle, wickedly sharp at the end. She tossed it at the knob and sparks flew. The metal comb had saved her from a nasty burn.
She retrieved the comb, examined other parts of the room, and found nothing that could help her. The light in the ceiling drew her attention last. When she stood directly beneath it she discovered that it was a wide tube lined with curving reflective material, bringing surface light deep underground. Now she understood why the Exodian government had not exterminated these outlaws: spotter planes had never seen this town.
Her knees wobbled less and her heart stopped racing. She drew in a thin breath and wondered how many underground cities there might be in the ninety states. No, not ninety. That lie had been exposed the year before last. Barrett had told her.
A stab of regret pierced her heart as she remembered the time they sat on her porch steps and he showed her proof that only twenty-five states still functioned. He had put his arm around her and told her she was pretty, but she’d cut him off and moved away. That was when he told her that Bram, he was called Dalton then, was rumored to be living in a secret town. Well, here was another secret town. Would Bram find her here?
She crumpled to the floor under the light, rubbed her aching muscles, and tried to keep from crying. When the light finally faded, she stretched out, and when sleep wouldn’t come to her, Lydia gave in to the tears.
* * *
The clouds close over me. My toe strikes an embedded rock. The force from the jolt catapults me forward. My eyes adjust to the darkening way. I walk another thousand yards silently repeating I will not lose her, I will not lose her. I work my way down a gradual incline and smell the unmistakable odor of horse manure. I stop and listen. Far behind me my fellow rescuers are less restless than I expected. Their muffled whispers kiss the breeze, soft but audible to my special hearing. I can only hope that their sounds remain unheard by Lydia’s abductors should they be nearby. I silently dismantle the rod into its smaller sections and tie all but one into my belt sacks.
A whistle draws my eyes to the northeast. I drop to the ground as fluidly as I can. I catch sight of a sentry taking his position and flashing a quick signal light to the left. He climbs a tree and settles in to watch for intruders—to watch for me. The second sentry flashes back, but stays on the ground. All the better to catch me, or rather all the better for me to catch him. I rise only inches to crawl forward on my forearms, gripping that middle section of the rod, adjusting my path to stay in the blind spots of both the watcher in the tree and the man on the ground.
I take my time. A tickle of apprehension creeps up my mid-section and settles across my chest. The muted sounds of the distant Reds readying themselves to come after me are no longer subdued. I press myself into some taller grasses and study the sentries. The one in the tree is alert, cocking his head toward those suspicious sounds, but the one on the ground has settled back against a tree, arms folded. An easy choice: I angle my position to align my aim upward toward the alert guard and set the rod’s countdown for sixty seconds. I begin my own mental ticking as I creep closer to the lazy guard.
There’s a flash, bang, scream, and I know the vigilant lookout has breathed his last as I leap onto the unsuspecting guard and perform the appalling twist, wrench, breaking moves I’d learned when I was fifteen. The adrenaline that gushes through my veins adds a colored haze to my vision and meets the heat that flushes me with shame. But I will not lose her. And in the instant that I bear the awful ebbing of life from this poor man’s body I see the letters of my simple promise move across a mental screen. They flutter like violet colored symbols that change into the phrase till we honor lies then fade into a lusty red that burns into my brain and changes again. The final phrase foretells a useful stratagem: slit in lower hole. I trust this unlikely clue as if it held a solemn promise. I know it will lead me to Lydia.
* * *
Lydia wiped away her tears and bolted upright when she heard someone unbar the door. Amal held his finger to his lips and gently pressed the door into place. He stuck a yellow orb on the wall and gave it a turn; it began to glow, giving enough light in the small room for Lydia to perceive the intention in his eyes.
“What’s your name, pretty one?” Amal kept his distance, opened his hands palms up, and raised his eyebrows.
Lydia wasn’t fooled by his innocent act. She considered screaming since he seemed to want her silent, but a second thought gave her a better plan.
“I’m Lydia,” she began. She worked a quavering sigh into her voice and moved her hands in helpless gestures, waving them at her head and stomach as she rambled as fast as she could. “I must look a mess. My hair. Oh, my clothes. This … this is not my best look. Let me comb my hair.” She went off on a tangent about dirt and snarls in her hair, the smell of horse, her need for soap and water, clean clothes, anything she could think of as she rose from the floor and slipped her hand into the belt sack to retrieve the sharp metal comb.
“Pretty enough.” Amal took a step closer.
Lydia drew the comb through the ends of her hair, keeping the tail of the comb hidden along her wrist. Amal’s face contorted into an obvious leer and he took another step, lowering his arms, unaware of his own vulnerability.
* * *
The flash bang has alerted my fellow Reds. I can hear them running my way. I backtrack a few yards and retrieve the foot-long section of rod, grip it like a club and run toward the guard who dropped from the tree. If he’s not dead I’ll have to strike him or break his neck.
His body is sprawled beneath the tree. No pulse. I search him as I did the other one and only find the whistle and signal light. I stuff them both in my second belt sack. Like the other guard he has no weapon. I don’t understand why these people would post men to watch for us and not arm them.
The Reds are halfway here. I scan the area. Is this a trick? Could all the men and horses and the rest of their people be huddled in that single building?
I climb the tree and look around from the guard’s perch. I see my people stumbling down the slope, their lights bobbing. I climb higher still and squint in all directions. There are dots of light scattered upon the earth between my people and me and beyond toward the single building. Small round lights blush upward in sly shades of pink or gold. Holes. Slits in the earth. An underground city. My pulse quickens. I will not lose her. I look for a hole that is lower than the others and spot its faint yellow glow.
* * *
As soon as Amal stepped into range Lydia brought her knee up hard against his groin. He grunted and doubled over. She stabbed at him, aiming for the soft tissue of his neck, but instead slashing across his skull when he jerked downward. Blood gushed from the head wound. Lydia circled toward the door and held th
e comb up, ready to gouge at his eyes with the pointed end that was now red to the hilt. Amal lifted his head and straightened up slowly, keeping a wary eye on her.
Suddenly the ceiling shook and they both looked up. A second tremor followed the sound of glass breaking. Amal shook his head and sneered as if a punctured skylight was a common problem. Lydia felt for the door knob, but kept her eyes on Amal. He in turn lunged at her and slammed her against the door, pinning her arm behind her and grabbing the wrist that held the mock spear. A heavy plunk signaled that the bar had fallen across the outside of the door and Amal was now as much a prisoner as she was.
He cursed and squeezed her wrist until the comb fell to the floor. Above their heads the center of the ceiling rumbled and shards of glass pinged onto the floor. Amal kept Lydia tightly restrained and nuzzled his wounded head against her neck. She didn’t fight; she didn’t even pull away from the sticky sensation. She began a loud rant in Amal’s ear to cover the sounds of what she hoped was a rescue attempt and not some wild beasts stampeding overhead. She watched over his shoulder and endured the pawing of his other hand as he brought it up along her side. Worn, blue-treaded boots abruptly hit the floor; Bram appeared with feet balanced, arms out, brandishing a shortened rod.
Before Amal could react to the new sound behind him Bram struck him hard against the back of his head. He crumpled to the floor.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. Is he dead?”
“You have blood on you.”
“It’s all right. Check and see if he’s dead.”
“He’s knocked out. He’ll live. Unless … did he hurt you?” Bram rose up from checking Amal and stretched a hand toward Lydia’s face. “You’re not bleeding? Are you sure?”
Lydia could only nod her head before the tears came. She tried to laugh it off, but her body betrayed her. She trembled and sobbed. Bram took her in his arms and held her tightly. When she finally spoke she sputtered out a few words that were unintelligible. She tried again, “Comb … red … hilt.” Bram reached down and picked up her meager weapon, wiped the blood off onto his own pants, and handed her the comb.
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he repeated. His own breathing was nearly back to normal. He had raced across the field, found the slit near the skylight and discovered the service access. He had removed the cumbersome belt sacks and punched his way through the glass then dropped fearlessly into her cell.
“No. It’s not all right,” Lydia said. Her voice grew stronger. “We’re still trapped.” She jiggled the door knob and, as she feared, found that the door was barred. “At least it’s not electrified. Maybe we can smash it open.”
“Too loud.” Bram thought a moment and looked back up at the light tube. “I can boost you up. You’re strong enough to work your way up and out pushing against the sides.”
“But how will you get out?”
“I’ll take your place. You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.”
Lydia shook her head and threw herself into Bram’s arms again. She stared up into his eyes and touched his cheek, drew her fingers through his dark beard, and slowly came up on her toes until their lips were too close not to touch. She lost herself in the softness of the kiss, the moment, the nearness.
* * *
I don’t want this precious kiss to end. It says all that I cannot. But there is an unconscious enemy at our feet, an army close by—perhaps behind that door—and a danger right above us.
I kiss her nose, her forehead, her hair, and then I pull her back for a second kiss more powerful than the first. More urgent. I never felt this with Kassandra. There is a rightness here that fits. Lydia is my rhythm, my strength, my comfort. I sink into the kiss and forget about all things as I concentrate on only one thing.
She makes a little humming sound and pulls away first, erasing the marked edge of our emotion and bringing us back to our predicament.
“Bram?”
“What?”
Her eyes dart from the guard to the door to the ceiling and back to me. “We should try to knock the door down. There are stairs—a way out—close by. We could run for it before they sound an alarm. I don’t want to go alone.”
I really don’t want her to go alone either, but I see no better choice. I press my hands against her shoulders and scan her for any other signs of injuries. I notice the end of the metal comb protruding from her belt sack and it comes to me—what she said: comb, red, hilt. The letters swirl and spell climb the rod.
So simple.
“I can get out with you,” I say. “You have to go first. I’ll boost you up and when you get through find my belt sacks and toss me down the other pieces to the rod. I can climb it to get out.”
* * *
The long trek back to the twelve springs refuge took half the night, but as soon as they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the underground city the Reds began to sing. Though there had been no battle, they knew that Bram had dispatched both sentries and wounded Lydia’s abductor. That was victory enough for a group of people who had so recently been slaves and so they sang. It was a new song, not the one Bram expected—not that strange, cryptic song about him that was more than a little embarrassing. He held Lydia’s hand, listened carefully, and joined in when the chorus repeated. The lyrics declared a victory, but like the other song there were indecipherable words that he suspected foreshadowed real battles in their future. Mira and the women who had come along danced around Bram, but in the dark only those closest could appreciate their enthusiasm. After a few minutes they melted back into the crowd as the singing died down and their steps slowed.
When they were half a mile from their stronghold, Bram held the rod aloft and waved the glowing tip. The tired troops took note and the pack drifted to a standstill. He sent two young men on ahead to inform the patrol he’d left on duty to stand down, that the approaching assemblage was friendly.
“Pass the word down the lines,” he told those closest to him, “that you’re to wake everyone inside. Pack your things. Fill your water jugs. We’re heading north again at dawn.”
* * *
Amal had no idea that he’d been struck by the tall man he’d taunted when he’d stolen the beautiful girl. When he came to his senses, he rubbed at his head, stared at the blood on the floor, and gaped at the shards of glass under the skylight. It was morning and the Director would be expecting him to bring the woman to the Center. He stood up, caught his balance, and pulled at the door. It didn’t budge.
He waited more than an hour before finally someone heard his shouts. He pushed past the man and made his way through the labyrinth of connecting tunnels, stumbling around the turns, until he reached the Center.
“Director,” he bowed his head with the greeting and immediately grew dizzy. He was lucky that someone grabbed his arm to steady him; it lent credence to the tale he devised. “The woman—that Red—I went to check on her in her cell. I saw the glass on the floor. I went to look and they jumped me from behind. They must have broken in through the ceiling and—” His cheeks reddened a bit, and his eyes flickered from the Director to his assistants, but he continued, “They locked me in.”
The Director held his gaze until Amal looked down. “And what time did this take place?”
Amal pretended to sway while considering a lie, but suddenly he wanted to see that woman again. He raised his eyes and stated, “Right after the start of second watch, Director.”
The Director shook his head and turned to his first assistant. “Send someone out to collect the sentries’ bodies; they’re undoubtedly dead. But first bring me Koji. We’ll divide our forces into two—one to surround the building at the twelve springs and burn them out if they haven’t fled by week’s end and one that I’ll lead. We’ll angle north and capture them as they make a run for the safety of Ronel’s land.”
Amal wondered how the Director could know where these Reds were headed, but he’d never been wrong before. Nor had the Director’s father or gran
dfather before him ever made a poor decision. Continually since before the Suppression, when the forbidden militia and the survivalists had joined together, these people had grown in secret wealth. Amal placed a hand over his heart and stood a little taller, ready to swear to the Director that he could ride scout for him.
But the Director had other plans for Amal.
Chapter 5 From Famine to Feast
From the eighth page of the second Ledger:
The table set before them was bare. As the ancients believed in manna from heaven, so these hungered travelers believed in help from above.
BRAM’S INSTRUCTIONS WERE met with more resistance than he thought possible given their circumstances. The lookouts ached for a battle and those who had stayed behind had geared up for combat, readied their supplies of ammunition during the night, and cleaned their weapons as well as they could. Defending the twelve springs had become a sudden preoccupation for them, and also for Eugene Hoi and his clan of Mourners. Dawn did not bring an evacuation, but rather a digging in and a vociferous demand to stay and fight the people they’d begun to call cave-dwellers. The dead body of the one named Hesser had disappeared before first light, whether dragged away by man or wild beast was hard to tell, but Eugene convinced his followers that Hesser’s men were near and were undoubtedly well provisioned. Some believed that meant there was ammunition to steal; others thought he meant food. Food was on everyone’s mind. Fighting would be a means to a very much needed end.
At sunrise the women and children remained inside while the men stationed themselves around the mall’s perimeter, ready. The morning grew hot, the afternoon dragged, and by evening their hunger to confront and challenge the cave-dwellers had diminished to just plain hunger.
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