Who was he? Excitement filled her body, little bubbles bursting in her brain. A wordsmith? Was it possible? But Benjamin was the last wordsmith. That is what they had always believed.
Over the course of the night, Marlo grew stronger. He still muttered in his sleep about Finn and the pump house. He mentioned other names too, Carmina and George, but he was growing calmer. Letta bathed his head with cool water just as the first rays of the morning sun peeped through the window. She pushed the long strands of red hair out of her eyes and wondered what her master would think. The boy opened his eyes. She noticed how beautiful they were, blue with flecks of grey, like the sea on a calm day. She smiled.
‘What you thinking?’ Marlo asked.
Letta hesitated, then decided to tell him part of the truth. ‘I was wondering what my master would think if he saw you here. That’s all.’
Marlo frowned.
‘No speak List?’ he said, and she could see the watchfulness in him.
‘I know you speak the old tongue,’ she said. ‘You’ve been talking in your sleep.’
‘Oh,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘Did I say anything interesting?’
‘No,’ Letta said. ‘Mostly nonsense. But, tell me, where did you learn to speak like that?’
She waited. He said nothing. Then she asked him the question that had been buzzing in her head during her long vigil. ‘Are you a wordsmith?’
Marlo laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Lol! I am not a wordsmith. The people who reared me – many of them have good language. That’s all.’
She stopped, taken aback. ‘Lol?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It means “laugh out loud”. L.O.L. See? My uncle Finn taught it to me. It’s an ancient expression that was handed down through his family.’
‘Laugh out loud,’ Letta said, mentally promising to write it down as soon as she could. ‘Isn’t it funny that they said it instead of doing it! I wonder did they say “cry bitterly” when they were sad?’
She took up her twig and began to sweep the worn wooden boards.
‘They probably hadn’t time,’ Marlo said. ‘They’d just have said CB.’
‘Lol,’ Letta retorted, and they both laughed.
He sobered first.
‘So what would your master have done with me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think he would have allowed you to die on the shop floor,’ Letta answered. ‘You might have bled on the words.’
He smiled.
‘Feeling better?’ Letta said.
Marlo reached out his hand and pulled her towards him. She felt his finger on her lip.
‘What happened to you?’ he said, looking at her, his head on one side, a frown tightening his forehead.
Letta was caught off guard by the sudden question. ‘Nothing,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘Just a small accident. Nothing important.’
He lay back on the pillow again and she saw a cloud descend on his eyes.
‘I had a dream last night,’ he said. ‘I dreamt I was a hare, a small brown hare, and when I looked up, I saw eyes in the undergrowth, red eyes, watching me.’
‘It was just a dream,’ Letta said. ‘It may be the fever.’
Marlo shook his head. ‘There’s always truth in dreams. Don’t you know that? We have to learn what they mean, that’s all.’ He paused for a second.
Letta waited, fascinated. He knew the word dream. An abstract.
‘Do you dream, Letta?’ he asked so softly that she had to lean in to hear him.
‘Dream?’ she said. ‘Sometimes I dream of words. Especially if I’ve been working hard.’
‘What words do you dream of?’ he asked.
Letta shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said, though she did. She had always dreamt of words. Beautiful words, haunting words and, last night, terrifying words.
He lay down and a few minutes later Letta heard the now familiar sound of his breathing as sleep once more overtook him. She rubbed a hand across her eyes.
In the shop, their stock of regular words was running low. Mrs Truckle had already called twice. Letta would need to stay up all night just to fill the orders she had.
Even so, she couldn’t resist sitting on the small armchair beside his bed and watching him. His face, so well formed, like something that had been sculpted out of a piece of rock. The curly black hair, damp with perspiration, the long lashes lying casually on the sallow skin and the smell, always the faint smell of sage. She breathed it in and resisted the impulse to trace the shape of his face with her finger. She had never seen anyone so exotic. She ached to know what his story was. What was the pump house he talked about? Who were his friends? She longed to talk to him, to know everything he knew. Why were the gavvers chasing him? Was he a criminal? A thief? A murderer? He didn’t look like one, she thought, but then what did thieves and murderers look like? Benjamin had met plenty of both in the early days, after the Melting. Gangs who roamed the earth, killing for food, killing for shelter, killing for the sake of it. Remnants of them still lived deep in the forest and were a constant threat to Ark.
She should never have taken him in, she knew that. She had brought danger right to their door. But there was something about him, a spark of energy like she’d never encountered before.
Excitement.
She got up and, with one last look at his sleeping face, left the room, pulling the door behind her.
CHAPTER 3
#189
Food
What we eat
IT WAS BUSY in Central Kitchen. The line snaked around the walls and tailed out the door, past the two burly gavvers, and on to the damp street. The gavvers were there every morning, stout and hatchet-faced, a grey cloud at the door, observing the workers as they collected their food. Letta had never paid them any heed, but this morning she felt as though their eyes were boring into the back of her head.
She had left Marlo alone in the house. She’d had no choice – she had to get food. She shuffled along about ten people away from the head of the line, her eyes taking everything in.
The room was long and low, painted a hueless mouse colour, with no windows and a rough stone floor. At the far end, a long counter, slightly elevated, cut across the width of the building, and behind that stood the ovens and cooking paraphernalia that produced meals three times a day for the southern end of Ark. The queue was three deep, a rolling wave of hungry people, grim-faced but determined. Some of the women had young children attached to their hips and occasionally the infants cried out, only to be quickly hushed by their vigilant mothers. The air was foetid with morning breath and the smell of dank clothes, undercut by the cooking smells emanating from the kitchen at the top of the room.
Letta shifted restlessly, wanting to get back to the shop.
Up ahead, Mary Pepper was dishing out food and instruction in equal measure:
‘Lift bowl! Take bread! Stand back! Next!’
Letta shuffled forward. She kept her head down, not wanting to talk to anyone, while all around her was a wall of noise.
‘Rain bad last night,’ a man beside her shouted to his friend further back the line.
‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘Rain bad.’
‘Gavvers about,’ the first man said, dropping his voice slightly.
Letta stiffened.
‘Looking for boy,’ the second one said. ‘Came to house. Looked. Nothing.’
The first man chuckled, a rich, deep sound that spread out and seemed to fill the room.
‘No look in my house,’ he said. ‘My mate only have girls.’
The second man leant over and slapped him on the back, clearly enjoying the joke, then they went on to talk about the state of the harvest. Letta willed them to say something else about the boy, but they didn’t.
‘One or two?’
Letta jumped and, looking up, found Mary Pepper glaring down at her. The older woman’s hair was as grey as her skin and it hung down in greasy waves against her sharp cheekbones.
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‘Eh … one breakfast. Two lunch,’ Letta managed to say, proffering her tokens.
Mary Pepper’s rat-like eyes narrowed. ‘Two? Benjamin not away?’
‘Yes,’ Letta stammered. ‘Two. He back lunchtime.’
The other woman muttered something under her breath but handed over one portion of boiled egg and two small carrot and parsley pies.
‘Take bread!’ she growled, and Letta grabbed the three portions she was entitled to.
‘Next!’ Mary Pepper roared, and Letta scurried away, grateful to leave the cook and her mean stare behind her. She walked quickly down the left side of the room. Past the waiting queue, through the door and on to the street. She was about to cross back towards the shop when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She stopped. It was one of the gavvers from the doorway. His companion had also abandoned his post and stood looking down at her.
‘Wordsmith?’
‘Apprentice,’ she said.
‘See boy?’
Letta thought quickly. She could not lie to them. They would know he had been in the shop. She nodded.
‘Yesterday. In shop.’
The man looked at her thoughtfully. He doesn’t believe me, Letta thought. If he searches the house now …
The gavver turned to his companion.
‘See!’ he said. ‘Found in wordsmith’s shop yesterday, not potter’s shop.’
The other man shrugged, and then both gavvers strolled back to their positions either side of the door, ignoring Letta.
Letta stood for a moment, her knees shaking, then turned and sprinted towards home.
They shared the food. She gave Marlo some water, though she knew they could ill-afford it. She would have to go to the water station and try to get an extra helping. She could tell them she had a fever. Marlo was quiet. Letta felt his forehead: it was warm and clammy.
‘I think the gavvers are looking for you,’ she said.
His eyes widened.
She told him what she had heard.
‘I should leave.’ Marlo went to get up, pushing the blankets away.
‘No,’ Letta said. ‘You are too weak. They won’t come here. My master is too well respected. They wouldn’t dare.’
She paused for a moment. She could see him watching her, waiting.
‘They shot you? The gavvers?’
He nodded.
‘Black Angel. It cuts through you, then burns the vein closed so that you don’t bleed to death. Hurts and heals.’
Letta nodded.
‘I have to go home,’ Marlo said, looking away from her. ‘They’ll be worried.’
‘Where’s home?’ Letta asked.
He shook his head.
Letta felt a flash of resentment. Did he not trust her? A sudden banging on the door distracted her. Gavvers. Letta was sure of it.
‘You have to hide,’ she hissed at Marlo.
Another bang on the door. Would they kick it in? She looked around desperately. The cupboard. She flew across the room and threw open the door. It was empty but for an old box and Benjamin’s father’s cloak hanging from a single nail.
‘In here,’ she said to Marlo. ‘Don’t make a sound.’
He struggled from the bed and Letta ran to help him. She could feel his arm around her neck, his skin hot and dry. He climbed in awkwardly, sinking to the floor of the cupboard at once. She slammed the door and dropped the latch with shaking fingers. Another bang on the front door, three short raps. She raced down the stairs. Stay calm, she told herself. Stay calm. Taking a deep breath she pulled back the bolts and opened the door.
‘What you doing?’ the voice outside admonished. ‘Door closed? No shop?’
It was Mrs Truckle. She charged past Letta.
‘Tally sticks?’
Letta spun around.
‘Tally sticks?’ she said back to her old teacher, her mind a total blank.
Mrs Truckle fixed her with a quizzical stare.
‘You sick?’ she said, head on one side, her eyebrows knitted in a tight frown. She was a small woman, strongly built though not stout with wide-set lively eyes and a short sharp nose. They had called her Bird in school because of her habit of putting her head to one side to look at you. There was a lovely rhythm to her words even though she only spoke List.
Letta smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not sick.’
Mrs Truckle nodded, examining her carefully. ‘Tired?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Letta said. ‘Tired.’
The little woman smiled back. ‘Sleep early,’ she said, wagging her finger at Letta, in mock severity.
Please go, Letta willed her. The image of Marlo sitting in the cupboard, his skin grey and lifeless, tormented her. She had to get back to him.
‘Now,’ Mrs Truckle went on. ‘Tally sticks?’
‘Yes,’ said Letta. ‘Tally sticks come yesterday.’
There were forty-two of them, carved by the woodmen and branded by the gavvers. Letta had entered each one in the old red ledger. The child’s name and the brand mark on his or her tally stick. The book was old and delicate and recorded the tally sticks since the foundation of Ark.
‘I get them,’ she said to Mrs Truckle and ducked down under the counter to pull out the large box the sticks had come in.
She handed them to the teacher, who sighed when she saw them. Everyone knew Mrs Truckle hated the sticks. She was required by law to put a notch on the stick each time a child failed to use List. Mrs Truckle blamed the parents for exposing their children to words that were not List. If they didn’t teach the children the old words, they wouldn’t be able to use them.
‘Word boxes?’ Mrs Truckle said, picking up the box of tally sticks.
‘Soon,’ Letta said.
Mrs Truckle looked surprised but said nothing.
Please go, Letta begged silently again.
‘Eyes like your father,’ the old woman said softly, before turning around and walking out the front door.
The words stuck in Letta’s heart. She wanted to call Mrs Truckle back to find out more about her eyes, about her father.
Instead, she turned and raced up the stairs, down the corridor and into the little room. She couldn’t hear anything. She yanked open the door and with a small thud Marlo’s body fell out and lay at her feet.
‘Marlo!’ she cried, the word almost strangling her. She knelt beside him and put her ear to his mouth. She was rewarded with a gentle breeze and she knew he was still alive. She half-lifted, half-dragged him back to the bed.
He was worse, she knew immediately. She ran downstairs and got her small wooden bowl and the flannel. She grabbed the sea-water bottle and tipped some into the bowl. Finally, she picked up their bottle of drinking water. It was almost empty. She would have to go to the water station and convince Werber to give her a fill without a token. She couldn’t think about that now.
Upstairs, she placed the wet flannel gently on his forehead. He didn’t move. She sat there tending to him as the day wore on, moistening his lips, fanning his head and running up and down from the shop as people called. By afternoon, he had opened his eyes and was sitting up again, though she could see how weak he was.
‘Should I call the healer?’ Letta asked him, noting the unnatural brightness in his eyes.
He shook his head.
‘Sometimes people react to the drug in the bullet,’ he said softly. ‘It will pass.’
‘I have to go and get water for us,’ Letta said. ‘Will you be all right till I get back?’
He nodded again. ‘I’ll sleep,’ he said and his eyes closed even as he spoke the words.
She didn’t want to leave him, but they had to have water. She took an empty bottle and closed the shop. She put her head down and headed north to the water station. The farm workers were still in the fields and the streets were quiet. There was no sign of the gavvers. She relaxed a bit, though she could still feel ripples of tension in her shoulders.
She went on, past the potter’s shop and down the hill to
where the grassy track ran level at first, then curved and dipped sharply before emerging into a small square. The water station stood on a little rise in front of a tall, lichen-bleached building. An old mill. The windows, which had once boasted real glass, were now roughly patched with wooden planks. Its roof was made of tin, well bitten by orange rust, which flaked onto its gables like dandruff. Old women huddled outside chatting, their weather-beaten faces turned away from the wind.
Werber Downes was distributing the water with two gavvers watching from the opposite side of the square. Werber smiled as she approached. He was the same age as Letta, tall and good-looking, with blond hair plastered to his head. His cheekbones were high and he had a perfect bow-shaped mouth, though Letta thought it would have been better suited to a girl. She had never warmed to Werber. He had always been so sure of himself and his obvious good looks. But she needed the water. She steeled herself and went up to him.
‘Letta! No harm!’ he said, beaming at her, his white teeth flashing against his brown skin.
‘No harm,’ Letta responded politely.
Werber raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.
‘Water, please,’ Letta said. ‘No token. Need extra. Fever.’
He frowned.
‘You sick?’
‘No,’ Letta said. ‘Better now, but no water.’
She held up the empty bottle. He put his hand on her forehead, and it was all she could do not to pull away. One of the old women caught her eye and sniggered. It was well known that Werber wanted to mate with Letta. She waited, willing herself to be patient.
‘Please, Werber,’ she said with her nicest smile.
He took the bottle. ‘I call see you later?’
His too-handsome face leaned in close to her, too close, his eyes consuming her.
I will make sure to be out, she thought belligerently, but she nodded her head and said nothing. He handed her the bottle. She wanted to snatch it and run but instead she took it from him gently, letting his soft fingers touch hers. Then she walked away with all the dignity she could muster.
She knew her attitude to Werber was wrong but she couldn’t help herself. She knew there were far too few people available for her to mate with, and Werber was young. Still, she thought, kicking a stone out of her way, she didn’t need to worry till she was eighteen. Eighteen. It might as well be a century away.
The Wordsmith Page 3
