“We have to break him out,” I say after she swears to help me.
“But how? You said he’s guarded. We can’t fight our neighbors!”
“Of course not,” I say, privately thinking that a few unconscious elders, hit on the head with a rock, would be a small price to pay for Lachlan’s life. “But we have to get in somehow, and then get him out.”
“And not just out of the hall—out of Harmonia.” Something strikes Mira. “Wait, if you get him out, what are you going to do?”
I haven’t had time to think that far ahead.
“Are you going to live in the woods? Wait, what am I going to do if they find out I helped?” She looks for a moment like she’s having misgivings. She just realized there are huge consequences to what she’s contemplating. It is treason to Harmonia. She could be facing exile from all she has known all her life.
Then a huge grin spreads out over her face. “It’s just what Carnelian and I always talked about! Oh, great Earth, this is perfect! I have to tell him! He’ll be on our side. He’ll help.”
“Wait, you’re not worried?”
“Rowan, we always fantasized about striking out on our own! Harmonia is great, but can you imagine really living in nature, in a cave or a hut you built yourself? Bathing in a spring, drinking from a birchbark cup, making your own tools from stone?” Some people would find it ghastly, but she’s talking about it like it is heaven. “But people aren’t allowed to leave Harmonia. Carnelian and I talked about it—living as close to nature as possible—but we might never be brave enough to do it. But if we save Lachlan, if we flee into the forest . . .” She’s laughing now. “Oh, Rowan, I knew as soon as I met you that you were going to be exciting.”
She’s going on about her dream, expanding it to include people we can rescue from Eden. “All your friends, your brother, the second children . . . If Harmonia won’t take them, we’ll make a place for them. We’ll live as we were intended to live, and we won’t control or exclude anyone!”
I’m not so sure people were intended to live that way. If we had time, I’d argue that humans have evolved to make things, to change their surroundings, to provide comforts for themselves, and that intelligence comes from learning moderation in the things we make and change. But this is not the time or place, and I’m just glad that Mira is so eager to help me now. We can work out our entire futures later, once we save Lachlan’s life.
“But how do we get in? And how do we get him out again?” Mira asks.
“Maybe we don’t,” I say. “Maybe we make them come out, and bring Lachlan with them.”
I have an idea. Only, Mira isn’t going to like it.
FIRST I HAVE to make it through the rest of the day. While my brain is awhirl with dreadful thoughts, I have to smile with my neighbors, accept their congratulations. I’m an adult now, and they have officially accepted me as a member of Harmonia. The change is even more noticeable for me than for the other test-takers. The natural-borns had less to prove. Now the villagers know that EcoPan was right to pick me.
It shows that no system is perfect. People have faith in systems all the time, and yet those systems fail them. The system should have weeded out anyone who would defy the community, question the laws, put people at risk. Yet here I am.
The day is endless. With infinite slowness the sun creeps toward the horizon, and I smile, and simper, and chat. I look sincere when the older members of Harmonia talk about the responsibility that awaits me. I nod earnestly as they tell me of the need to be a role model for the younger generation.
As I socialize I pick up things here and there—bits of dried moss, the white gauzy fluff of seed heads, curls of bark. I play with them absently as I talk, slipping them into my pockets when no one is looking. Even if they saw, they probably wouldn’t remark on it. Soon my pockets are stuffed with soft, dry bits of plant matter.
Kids swarm over me, asking about the test. They never wonder why I hug them all extra tight. Such precious lives. I think about the children of the Underground. What good is any society that lets children suffer?
The festivities aren’t quite as exuberant as the Wolf Moon festival, but there is an air of celebration at painful odds with my internal state. The honey cakes are dry in my mouth, the pure spring water tastes stale. And still the sun creeps slowly toward night.
Mira comes up to me near evening. “I talked to Carnelian. He needed some . . . convincing.” She gives me a wry look. “You know how he feels about adventure. He is totally on board with the rescue in theory. It just took me a while to persuade him that the risk is worth the reward, and that the risk isn’t that great in the first place.”
“But it is,” I tell her. “I’m feeling guilty that I’ve gotten you involved. What if . . .”
She puts her fists on her hips. “As of this morning, I’m an adult, just like you. You haven’t gotten me involved. I choose to be involved, because it’s the right thing to do.”
“But the consequences are suddenly greater,” I say. “Before this morning, I would have said the worst that could happen to us if we defied the elders is, I don’t know, a strict talking-to. It never occurred to me that they’d consider executing someone. Now that’s on the table, not just for him, but maybe for you and Carnelian if we get caught.”
“We’re citizens of Harmonia,” she says. “I’m sure they wouldn’t do that to us. And that’s if we get caught. We won’t.”
“You’re so sure?” I ask.
“It’s a good plan.”
It took me a while to talk her around to it. On the surface it seemed to contradict the teachings she was raised with. Now, though, she’s entirely on board.
Later, Carnelian brings me a strange bouquet. It is made of clusters of dried cattails, the brown sausage-like seed clusters near the top of flexible reeds. He has made it pretty with curlicues of dried grasses and ribbons dyed purple and pink. “Congratulations,” he says and kisses me awkwardly on the cheek before giving me a wink that could be seen a mile away and shambling off. He’s not the best co-conspirator, but I’m glad of his help.
Night falls, and still we wait. Everyone believes I am happy. As it gets later, everyone believes I am tired. I fake a yawn and get sympathetic jokes about resting while I can—adult responsibilities begin in the morning.
I say good night to a few people, ostentatiously so they will remember later. To Morgan the potter I say, “It’s funny how some nights when I’m extra tired it’s even harder to fall asleep. I just stare at the ceiling. It’s like I’m too tired to fall asleep. Does that ever happen to you?”
I cock my head, waiting for him to dole out the words of wisdom he loves to share. In this case, I happen to know how he deals with sleepless nights.
“Moonlit walks,” Morgan says. “That’s the ticket! Just get out under the night sky, all alone with your own thoughts and nothing but the frogs and the breeze for company. It puts things in perspective. After I walk by my lonesome under the moonlight, I sleep like a baby.”
I thank him for his advice, and promise I’ll try it if I have trouble falling asleep.
There, I’ve done it. No one, not even the watchful elders, thinks anything in particular is on my mind. I’m a good, obedient little member of society, following the rules unthinkingly. I’ve even set up my cover story in case I’m caught late at night when the village is in bed. I’m just following Morgan’s recommendations. He’ll vouch for me if I’m caught wandering before I can put my plan into action.
Fooling my mom is going to be harder.
She’s waiting for me at home, deep consternation on her face. “There you are. I thought you’d be home sooner.”
I yawn—not faked this time—and tell her that a lot of people wanted to talk to the newest official members of society. “In fact, they were asking about you.”
“I was too upset to socialize,” she says. “I’m surprised you were able to . . .” She bites her lip. She doesn’t want to accuse me of being heartless enough to enjoy myself while an innoce
nt man was condemned.
“Life goes on,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t like it, but . . .” I break off. I can’t push indifference too far with her. She knows me too well.
“Rowan, I was thinking. Tomorrow morning I’m going to approach the other elders again. After they’ve had the night to sleep on it they might see things differently. If I appeal to their conscience, their humanity, they might spare him. At least for a while, so they can think things through more carefully.”
She waits for my happy response. “That’s great, Mom,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll be able to convince them.” I start to head upstairs to my bedroom.
“Rowan,” my mom begins, and I stop on the steps.
“What?”
“Oh . . . never mind honey. Sleep tight.”
“You too, Mom.”
I go up three more steps before I stop, then whirl and run back down to her.
“Oh Mom, I love you so much! These last months with you, after I thought you were dead . . . I’ve been so lucky to have them. To have just a little more time with you.”
“Rowan, what’s gotten into you?” she asks as she hugs me back, half-suffocated by the fierceness of my embrace.
“I just don’t know if I tell you often enough how much I love you. You are the most amazing woman, and I hope every day I can make you proud of me.”
“Sweetheart,” she says as she strokes my hair, “I am always proud of you. I’m always on your side.”
For a second I study her face, wanting so much to tell her what I’m planning. She might help me. But I think of those two warring urges within her: to keep me safe, and make me happy. The first sixteen years of my life were governed by the former. She made so many sacrifices to keep me safely hidden behind our house’s walls. Happiness was part of that sacrifice, hers and mine. Now, though she has loosened up so much, urging me to have adventures, I still think deep down that yearning for safety prevails.
I want to think she’d help me save Lachlan. But I think her first thought would be to save me.
So I say nothing, but let her go and head to my bed without another backward look.
Even thought I know it might be the last time I ever see her.
Every time I try to think about that, pragmatic Yarrow stops me. You’re not going to let Lachlan be killed, she points out correctly. So don’t think too much about the consequences. None of them are going to sway you. When you rescue Lachlan you’ll have to leave. That’s the only option. Don’t think beyond that. Anything can happen.
“Sure,” I whisper to her, “that’s exactly the kind of attitude a party girl like you would have. Don’t worry about what’s going to happen once the sun comes up if the party is still raging through the night.”
Still, her philosophy helps me get through the next hour without going crazy.
I lie on my bed, under covers but fully clothed, and wait for the house to grow quiet. I spend my time thinking about Lachlan, wondering if he is awake, in pain. It is torment. When I’m sure Mom is in bed and everything is perfectly still, I count very slowly to a hundred. Then I do it again, a deep breath for each count. Finally I roll out of bed and feel in the darkness until I find my shoes. Holding them in one hand, I pick up the pack I’ve prepared and throw it over the other shoulder.
The broken lower stems of Carnelian’s bouquet litter my bedroom floor.
There are no lights outside, and the nightly bonfire in the village green has been doused. Those artificial logs are designed to burn without pollutants and extinguish themselves after a set time. Environmentally conscious people living in the heart of a forest are very careful with fire.
With painstaking caution I creep downstairs and let myself out. The night is still. Even the owls are quiet tonight. My footsteps sound loud to me in the heavy hush, but I tell myself that no one is awake to hear me.
Carefully, avoiding the houses and sticking to the shadows beneath the trees, I make my way toward the Hall of Elders. I don’t go directly to it, but skirt around in the deep woods until I come to its rear. I know that some of the elders live there. Elder Night is one of them. Others have their own homes, and only go to the hall for official business. On this night I’m sure there will be more elders there than usual, guarding the prisoner.
But there is no one in the back. If this were Eden there would be security cameras and bots around any important building. I wouldn’t have a chance. Here, though, they only guard the obvious points—the front (and only) door, and the prisoner himself.
Certain that I have the back to myself, I retreat into the woods for a moment, gathering what I need. Near my hiding place I separate it into piles according to size.
For a long time I crouch in the branches of a rhododendron, watching the back of the wooden hall like a cougar watching its prey. I know that Mira is watching the building from her house, which is nearby. Carnelian is with her. She’s waiting for the very obvious signal that will tell her it is time to play her part.
Finally, when a half hour has passed without any sign of a sentry, I take what I’ve brought and what I’ve gathered to the back of the building.
I’ve stolen a paring knife from the communal kitchen, a small, wickedly sharp blade mostly used to peel and slice root vegetables. I tell myself I won’t put it to any more deadly use tonight. This is a tool, not a weapon. I won’t let anyone get hurt tonight.
I cut a long slice into one of the dried cattails Carnelian gave me, taking care not to cut all the way through to my fingers. Though it looked solid on the outside, the size and shape of an ear of corn, it explodes into chaotic fluff under my knife. Tightly packed in the cattail are the plant’s seeds. Millions of them. Freed from their compression they make a mass of cloudy whiteness ten times the size of the original cattail. I open all of them the same way, patting the fluff into a ball. Bits float around my head, tickling my nose, and I have to stifle a sneeze.
I put the fluff into a tent of twigs propped up against the wall of the Hall of Elders. The dried branches like slender fingers trap the white cloud. Heftier branches fortify the structure. Larger logs, as thick as my arm, lay ready nearby.
Then, with a deep breath, I pull out a piece of flint from my pack.
The elders taught me how to make fire as part of our survival training. However, they frown upon its use except in the most dire emergencies. Cooking fires, hearths for heat were never a problem when human populations were low. After all, fires are a natural phenomenon. Started by lightning in tinder-dry forests, some trees and ecosystems actually depend on fires to survive. But fires also make pollutants, the elder taught me. One person, one village using fire won’t hurt the Earth. But the symbology is as important as the reality, and to use fire (real fire, not our artificial logs) indiscriminately is to show a disregard for the Earth. So though we learn to make fire in case we are trapped away from Harmonia in the dead of winter, we aren’t supposed to make a fire with real wood, ever.
What I’m doing now feels like a sacrilege.
It also feels indescribably thrilling, as I strike the piece of flint against the metal blade and see a spark fly to the intensely combustible cattail tinder. It ignites in an audible whoosh, and I jerk back as the heat hits my face.
The fire burns through the cattails quickly, leaving ash behind, but the twigs catch too, their dried bark singeing and crumbling as the wood burns. I blow on it gently, and like a living thing the fire feeds and grows. When it is well established I lay the larger logs on it, propped up in a triangle against the building.
After a while, they start to burn, too. And so do the wooden planks of the Hall of Elders.
The smolder is slow, creeping into the wood. The fire has to be encouraged, given just enough wood but not too much, enough air to give it the oxygen it needs to combust, but not so much that it is blown out. A new fire is a fragile thing.
But I help it grow strong.
There is something so primal about this real fire, a smell, a feel that the fake fire just
can’t match. The dancing red and orange flames are hypnotic. The first human to tame fire must have felt like a god.
Then I feel ashamed. The elders are right. We are just weak humans who would descend into destructive behavior within a generation if we weren’t kept in control. I can feel the urges in myself.
You’re only human, Yarrow says mockingly from inside my head. Or is she trying to be reassuring?
This fire is for a purpose—to save a life. This is an exception, I tell myself. I’m not someone who would harm the Earth.
The flames are leaping high now, higher than me, embracing the wall. What’s on the other side? Lachlan’s cell is on the opposite end, but someone might be sleeping right here. Any moment now the fire will burn through the walls and smoke will start to fill the Hall of Elders. I can only hope that no one will be hurt.
You don’t really care, Yarrow whispers to me. As long as you save Lachlan.
“That’s not true!” I snap back at her.
I want her to be wrong. But I’ve already shown that I can kill for what I believe in. And if the elders are advocating executing someone who has committed no crime, who only wants the freedom it is every human’s right to pursue . . .
No, I fervently hope that no one gets hurt. But if they do, it is worth it in the battle against what I know in my heart is wrong.
Sure, Yarrow says infuriatingly. But would you do all this if it was a stranger from Eden, and not Lachlan?
“I hope I would always do the right thing,” I tell her.
Funny how the right thing with you always seems to involve doing a lot of wrong-ish things along the way, she points out.
I hide in the woods again, far from the angry fire, positioning myself now so that I can see the front of the hall. Is it taking too long? What if the place is filling with smoke so fast that the elders inside just pass out, dying in their beds before anyone can spread the alarm? Have I just doomed not only Lachlan but the elders, too, to a terrible death?
Clenching my jaw, I watch and wait. Somewhere out there Mira and Carnelian are watching too. Long moments tick by.
Rebels of Eden Page 13
