Padrillo? Ethan has the advantage of youth by a good fifteen years, but Colonel Padrillo bulges in every muscle. It sounds like quite a match. “I’ll look forward to it.”
I arrive at the gymnasium twenty minutes early and use the time to run through some calisthenics reps. Mention of my weights instructor has reminded me that I haven’t completed any strengthening exercises for two weeks. Captain Chase arrives just as I’m finishing on the pull-up bar.
We start right in with defensive maneuvers using the dreaded marker. I avoid many of her attacks and manage to disarm her several times, but I still collect an assortment of black marks.
“You’re getting better,” she encourages.
“Captain Alston gave me some pointers in the wilderness.”
“Ethan’s quick. If you match his reflexes, you can take on anybody.”
She hands me the marker and I go on offense.
Afterward, I hit the shower, grab breakfast in the mess hall, and return to my new quarters. It’s only eight o’clock and I’ve already had a full morning. I’ll probably need a nap after lunch, but all the exercise has left my brain ready to work. I sprawl on the couch with a folder labeled “Jack and the Beanstalk” and pull out an ancient-looking parchment encased in some kind of flexible protective cover. I can’t read the language.
I find a typed page clipped to the back of the document:
Found in the ruins of a church crypt in Marnhull, Isle of Britain, 2167 CE. Dated to 700–725 CE. Translation: Dear Mother, The stories Grandmum told us are true. Chandler and I both saw the light on our way home from the Jolly Hound, glowing blue and misty in the Grinwold just as Grandmum described it. Chandler was drunk and has it in his mind that the light sprang up from the new line of seeds he has developed. He spent half the evening trying to sell me a peck of them. My cousin is an idiot, but a grand idiot. I did not tell him what the light means, as he has no daughters. I have brought the milk cow round to him. He will treat her kindly, and we cannot take her with us. Gather what you can carry without drawing attention to yourself and bring Charlotte to the vestibule of the church an hour after evening mass. I will meet you there. We must away. They are coming. Your son, Jack Smythe
I realize that what I am reading could pass for an early version of the folk tale. A very early version. It dates to only a few hundred years after the decline of Roman Britain and well before the Norman conquest. Miss Whaley told me that those who study the history of languages and cultures believe the story to be much older than the original publication in the eighteenth century. This one certainly appears to be.
I read the parchment again and then one more time, lingering over the description of the light. It is the part of the letter I find most disturbing. While it appears to be the story’s most fantastical element, I know it is not. I have seen such a thing—twice. The greater of the two apparitions is connected with Judson Wilfert and my very worst memory. I’m certain the coincidence holds significance, but I cannot fathom what it could be. And at the moment, I’m not sure I have the fortitude to revisit that horrific chapter in my past. I set the problem aside for later.
The next page in the same folder contains a historical account translated from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the annals of the early English kingdom of Wessex. It is so brief, I wonder how it ever found its way into Willoughby’s files: “713 AD—A significant number of young women have gone missing from the diocese.”
I flip the page over. That’s it. No attempt at an explanation. No details. Only this abbreviated notation.
I tap the page against my palm thoughtfully. The two historical sources, both dated to the same time period, have been linked with the folk tale. Is there supposed to be a correlation? I’m not catching it, so I place both pages back in the folder and set it in the file box along with the storybook. Then I pull out the Bible.
I inhale the smell of old leather, a keen reminder of Opal and home. Her Bible was the only banned book—the only book—Opal owned, and she read to us from it often. I pull free a single sheet that has been stuffed in the middle of the pages. It contains three references. I turn to the first and read the account of a shepherd boy named David who visited his older brothers in the army of ancient Israel. When the opposing forces sent out a giant warrior to challenge Israel, David defeated him with a sling and a handful of stones. It is a passage I have heard many times.
I close the book around my fingers and press the binding to my forehead. I am beginning to suspect a connection.
The second reference sends me to another passage Opal read to us, the story of the twelve Israelite men who were sent to spy out the land God promised to give them. The final verses read: “And they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of Israel, saying, ‘The land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. And there we saw the giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.’”
Giants.
Willoughby wants me to read about giants.
Why?
I set the Bible down in disbelief. How do Bible stories and children’s tales possibly pertain to the kidnapping case? Giants aren’t even real. So why waste my time?
I stare out the window, thinking about all the things I could be helping Ethan with. He and Caedmon have their hands full with all the forensic details they’re trying to juggle. I could at least be monitoring Emerson’s location or digging up information on the various victims and suspects. Instead, Willoughby has me reading fiction.
I sigh and reluctantly pick the Bible back up.
The final passage is one I have not read before, taken from Genesis at the very beginning of the book: “And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. And the Lord said, ‘My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.’ There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.”
I toss the Bible back in the box and pull out the remaining items. I find story after story about giants—Roman, Celtic, Norse, Greek, Chinese, Germanic, Gaelic, even Hindu. Some are bound volumes like Jack and the Beanstalk. Others are simply stapled pages of typed text. I slouch against the back of the couch, surveying the contents of my coffee table with deep skepticism. “Willoughby, what are you doing?”
But I think I know. Every single story is accompanied by a folder containing historical sources and anecdotes. Willoughby is trying to prove giants as real historical beings. And if the account from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is indicative of the other documents, he’s trying to blame the disappearances on them.
I stand up and walk to the picture window with its incredible view of the mountain. As I stretch, my eye falls on a rooftop nestled among the trees on the other side of the valley. I wonder if it is Opie’s cabin. I know Opie doesn’t work on Saturdays, and since this assignment is absolutely ridiculous anyway, I decide to hike up the ridge and find out.
I’m back in my maroon and black Axis uniform, a change from the trendy schoolgirl outfits I wore all week but so much easier to move in. I set out at a brisk walk, skirting the Fire Ring and the aeropod hangar, and leave by the back corner, which I judge to be the most direct route. I’m rewarded with a faint trail. I follow it.
Axis sits on a ridge of land that wraps around the east end of the valley. The cabin I saw nestles midway up the far side, on a semi-flat outcropping next to an old red barn. After about twenty minutes, the trail leads straight into its yard. A herd of goats confined in a movable pen crop the grass of the front lawn, and a good-size
d garden grows on the mountain’s open palm. The view is incredible, overlooking the valley in three directions. The land descends in a steep but navigable tangle of woodlands all the way to the settlement on the valley floor.
The cabin itself is small, built of logs and roofed with rusty tin. The entire structure rests a few degrees off square, and the chimney seems to be exerting a good deal of effort to keep the entire thing upright. But it appears watertight, and cabin and barn fit together so perfectly in their setting that I have to grant them a certain old-world charm.
The porch moans softly as I climb the steps and knock on the front door. A dog barks, then a man with dirty yellow hair and a wad of tobacco in one cheek opens the door. I’ve guessed right.
Opie’s smile cracks his face wide open, revealing his few stained teeth. “Jack, what a pleasure! Come inside.”
He swings the door wider, and the dog trots out to nose me, tail wagging.
“This is Rennie. He found me in the valley one day and hired on as my official overseer. He works cheap enough.”
I chuckle and give the dog a pat before I step through the door.
The interior of the cabin looks as quaint as the exterior. It’s tiny, sparsely decorated with homemade furnishings. Two screens tucked in a back corner fashion a makeshift bedroom. One wall supports a mounted wooden ladder that leads up to a loft. On the opposite side of the room, a fireplace sprawls from corner to corner. The cabin is immaculate and smells of the dried dill and basil hanging from the ceiling. I spot the pink teacup on the counter.
“I was just about to make myself some lunch,” Opie says. “Care to join me?”
“Yes, thank you.” I straddle a three-legged stool. Rennie sets his head in my lap and I stroke his silky fur. He looks part border collie with a bit of everything else mixed in.
“Don’t start in on his ears or you’ll never get rid of him.”
“He must be good company for you up here. He seems really sweet.”
“Sure, but he’ll take a chunk out of your hide if you try to steal a goat. Uncanny how smart a dog is.” He flicks a hand at the animal. “Go on now. Go lay down.”
Rennie steps a few paces away and curls up where he has a front row view of our meal.
Opie snaps his fingers. “Before I forget, I’ve got a letter for you.” He rummages in a drawer and produces an envelope. “Take it outside if you want. I need a few a minutes to set out lunch.”
When I recognize Opal’s unsteady script, I decide to follow his advice. I open the flap expecting to pull out a sheet with Opal’s brief words. Instead, the page contains line after line of Will’s precise handwriting. I suck in a breath. This is a priceless jewel. An unexpected treasure. I hold the letter reverently as I read the precious words.
Dear Jack,
How long has it been since we parted? Three months? A thousand? It feels like it could be. Or maybe that’s just how many times I’ve replayed our last night in my mind. I must take out that memory and examine it once an hour. And every evening, I mark one less day that stands between us and the chance to recreate it.
Life isn’t all bad at Macron. I like the physical nature of the training. And the other Initiates are all right. I’m especially glad Ernie’s here. It’s a shame we never clicked at school. I suppose a mile and a half between houses is much farther on foot, though we ran it often enough. But hanging out with the guys has a totally different dynamic than time at home spent with you. I miss our rambles around the countryside. All those Sunday afternoons studying at my parents’ table. Digging wild roots. Poking in tide pools just to see what they contained.
I don’t think I ever told you the moment I knew you were the girl I wanted to marry. It was only last autumn when I started thinking about such things. You were twenty feet up an elm tree just to see how high you could climb. I was thinking to myself that life would never be dull if I shared it with someone with so much exuberance. I still believe it.
Our time will come, Jack. I’ll wait for you if you’ll wait for me. And I’ll hold you in every thought until we’re together again.
All my love,
Will
I clutch the letter to my heart. I can hear his voice enunciating every word. “Will,” I whisper, my heart winging away in search of his. It pleases me to imagine some small part of me meeting up with some small part of him, even over all that distance. But then, isn’t that what a letter is? The sending of love across the space that separates us?
I reread his words half a dozen times, soaking in them. Saturating myself. I am gone so long, Opie pokes his head out the door to check on me. “No bad news, I hope?”
I smile and shake my head. “No, nothing bad at all.” I carefully fold the note and tuck it in my pocket. I will reread it at least another ten times before I go to sleep.
Opie has set out a loaf of homemade bread, butter, strawberry preserves, and a round of cheese. “A feast fit for kings.” He smiles as he pulls up the other stool. Then he spits his chaw into his teacup, sets it back on the counter, and bows his head. “Oh Lord, bless this food and this company. Amen.”
“Amen.” It is nearly word-for-word the same prayer Opal always says. The same fresh, humble food I grew up with. Unwittingly, Opie has made me feel perfectly at ease.
“So,” he says, shoving the breadboard in my direction. “You’re home from your stint in the city. What did you think?”
“I won’t miss it.”
He laughs. “I traveled to a city once, about thirty years ago. I had to pick up a delivery for Willoughby. I never felt the need to go back.”
“I didn’t know you worked for Axis that long.”
“I haven’t. But I’ve done odd jobs for them off and on since they built the place.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, must be forty-five, forty-six years ago now.” He grins. “Shows you how old I’m getting. Your mama probably wasn’t even born yet.”
It’s strange how much history people like Opie, Willoughby, and Opal have seen. They lived at least the entire span of my lifetime under the old system of government. “Opie, how old were you when the Provocation started?”
He pauses to cut a hunk of cheese and takes a bite. “Reckon I was pushing thirty. I had a wife and two little kids. It was a different world back then.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“About life before, or about the Provocation?”
“Either.”
He chews slowly. “They were good days, before. There just seemed to be more.” He points a crust of bread at me. “Don’t get me wrong. We didn’t have a lot of stuff. But what we did have was wholly ours, if you catch my meaning. Our preference. We got to choose our music, what flavor gumdrops to purchase, what book to read to our kids at night, where to hang our hat. Seems like nowadays everything’s decided for us. Makes you feel less a person somehow.”
“You don’t think Governor Macron’s changes were necessary?”
“Some of them, perhaps. At first. Folks were in a panic, and some of her policies did calm them down. But they’ve long outstayed their usefulness.”
We’re getting into areas that could land us in a lot of trouble. I feel like I don’t know Opie well enough to discuss them further, so I steer us in a slightly different direction. “How did it start? The Provocation, I mean.”
“It came in waves.” Opie chews faster now and spreads another slice of bread with jam. “Schools were hit first. Kids just disappeared. Mostly girls, but boys too. They didn’t come home at the end of the day. Everyone knew someone who was missing. Parents took to walking their kids to and from school. Later, adults began to vanish too. Wasn’t much rhyme or reason to it. Up here in the hills, we didn’t have it as bad. Reckon nobody wanted to mess with the business end of a shotgun.”
“Do you believe the authorities never found any evidence?”
“Not for one blinkin’ second. Dempsey was covering something up, you can bet on it. And I’ll cook my boots if Macron
doesn’t know what it is.”
I’m quiet for a long time. It seems so absurd, but I have to ask. “Opie, have you ever seen a giant?”
His eyebrows bob, and he swings back his curtain of hair to get a better look at me. “Giants? No, I don’t reckon so. Although when it storms good and loud, some folks still say it’s giants playing tenpins up on the heights.” He grins.
He’s laughing at me. I know my cheeks have turned pink. But even worse than my embarrassment is my profound unease over the similarities between the Provocation and the kidnappings. How is it that these old-timers have not made the connection? Unless, as Ethan says, Governor Macron has kept such a tight rein on the press that they just don’t know.
“Opie, are you aware of the disappearances happening across the country right now?”
“Come again?”
“There’s been a string of abductions the past two weeks. Mostly teenage girls.”
The color drains from his face.
“They’re not unexplainable,” I backpedal. “Captain Alston and I broke up a ring of kidnappers just last night. Regular men holding them hostage.”
“It can’t be the same,” Opie mumbles. He clears his throat and seems to put himself back together. “The important thing is you caught them.”
But I have seen the apprehension in his eyes. The naked fear that it could be happening again. I can’t even imagine what the Provocation must have been like to leave such a deep scar on one of the most grounded men I have ever met. I decide to abandon the subject altogether.
I push my empty plate to one side. “So, what do you do up here alone all day, Opie?”
“The same thing you did in 56, I reckon.”
“Opal always tucked a garden into our yard somewhere. Will you show me what you’re growing?”
We enjoy a good visit. Opie takes me all over his property. I can see his pride in every corner of it. I ask about his family and he gives me the latest news from Settlement 9. Then we spend an hour on his front porch just drinking spring water and watching the butterflies flutter past.
Recompense (Recompense, book 1) Page 20
