The word wasn’t out of her mouth when she heard an almighty crash overhead. Letta jumped. The two women looked at one another. Mrs Truckle turned her head slowly and looked up towards the stairs.
‘Box,’ Letta said, the words tumbling out. ‘Box fall. Upstairs. I go.’
Mrs Truckle looked anxiously towards the room behind Letta.
‘Be careful, child,’ she said, taking her word boxes. ‘Very careful.’
The old woman touched her hand and Letta, feeling the warmth of that small embrace, wanted to tell Mrs Truckle everything, to hold her and keep her with her. But she knew she couldn’t. She walked to the door with the older woman.
‘Lock now,’ Mrs Truckle said before disappearing into the outside world. Letta did as she said, throwing the bolts as quickly as she could, then tearing through the shop and up the stairs.
He was lying on the floor. She knelt beside him and took his head in her hands. The skin was dry and hot. She jumped up and quickly fixed the bed then kneeling behind him, and gripping him under the arms, she hauled him up. It took all her strength, and even then she felt her back would break from the strain and that her arms would be wrenched from their sockets, but she got him on to the bed. She knelt on the floor to get her breath. Kneeling there on the hard floor she knew that he would not be going to that wheat field the following day.
For the rest of the day, and through the night, she cared for him as the fever raged in his body. She bathed his face, squeezing the little water that she had from the flannel, and wet his lips. She struggled to keep him lying down, tried to stop him shouting in his ravings and was terrified that someone on the street would hear him despite her efforts. Towards dawn, the fever broke, and he opened his eyes.
‘Oh, Marlo,’ she said, relief flowing through her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Have you been there all night?’
She smiled at him.
‘How do you feel?’ she said.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘What day is it?’
‘Friday,’ she said softly.
He went to stand up.
‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Finn will be there and –’
She pushed him back. ‘You can’t go,’ she said. ‘You can hardly stand.’
He turned his face away from her and she could feel his frustration.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go.’
He turned his head slowly and looked at her.
‘No!’ he said. ‘It’s too risky.’
‘It’s risky having you here,’ she said, straightening the bed cover.
He caught her hand. ‘Why are you doing all this?’
His question stumped her. Why was she doing it? Because she didn’t want him banished. No matter what he had done. She knew that was the truth.
‘Never mind that now,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘We need to get food and water. What will happen you when I’m gone? If the fever comes back.’
‘It won’t,’ Marlo said. ‘I will stay in the Monk’s Room.’
She nodded, though she could feel the anxiety building in her. She didn’t want to imagine him cowering in the Monk’s Room burning with fever.
She spent the rest of the morning getting food and drink to leave with him, taking almost nothing for herself. He was still not inclined to eat but she coaxed him to swallow a little bread and a thin vegetable broth. She heard the bells ring eleven times and got ready to leave.
‘I’ll help you to the Monk’s Room,’ she said. ‘And I’ll lock up the shop. You’ll have water and I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Marlo said. ‘You need to look out for yourself. Once the show is over, our people will scatter really quickly, heading off in different directions. Try to find Finn. He’s a big bear with jet-black hair and a beard. Tell him Marlo needs him, but be careful.’
‘I will,’ Letta cut across him impatiently. All this talk was making her even more nervous. ‘It’s time I went,’ she said.
Marlo nodded and put his arm about her neck.
Fifteen minutes later she closed the door on the Monk’s Room. It had taken that long for him to walk with her help the few strides it took to get him there. He collapsed onto the floor and Letta thought his skin was the greyest she had ever seen it.
‘Good luck,’ he’d managed to whisper, before shutting the small door.
Letta walked carefully through the town, eyes downcast, trying not to draw any attention to herself. She turned north at the tailor’s shop and started the long climb to the wheat fields. The day had been cloudy till this, but now the autumn sun erupted from between the clouds, warming her hair. They might not even be there, she told herself. Anything could have happened to make them change their plans. Anything. She kicked a stone out of her way and almost slid on the wet mud. She stopped to get her breath. The potato fields came into focus first, with the potato pickers bent over like lines of crane birds. Letta ignored them and hurried on. She still had no plan. What would she say when she got to the wheat fields? What business had she there?
They would know at once that she was up to no good. She must have been mad to think she could pull this off. Her feet seemed to move of their own volition as her brain screamed at her to stop and change course. She came around the corner and realised she had reached her destination. The wheat fields stretched out on either side of her. The field nearest the road was where the Desecrators planned to be. The long low shed with its innocent flat roof ran along the west side just as Marlo had described within fifty strides from where she stood. From that lofty perch a row of magpies watched the scene unfolding in the field below, their black and white plumage lit bright by the sun. Amongst the waving sea of golden wheat, the men were stripped to the waist, each one carrying a scythe. Letta watched, hypnotised, as they moved through the yellow grain, their scythes swinging in unison, the swish of their razor-sharp blades alongside the tinkling of the shorn stems.
She couldn’t see the supervisor, but he was there somewhere, she knew. She looked at the shed roof again. Marlo’s friends weren’t there. She could go home.
She looked again at the reapers as they swayed from side to side, leaving ribbons of yellow behind them. The feeling of foreboding was everywhere, bearing down on her, making the very air she breathed smell rancid. She turned to leave, glancing one last time at the shed as she did so. One minute the birds were on the roof, the next they had taken to the air with loud screeches, and when Letta refocused her eyes she could see a woman. Letta held her breath. An alien sound filled her ears. Music. Music swirling around her. Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah.
Letta stood shivering in her excitement, her fists clenched, her eyes never straying from the source of the exquisite sound. A tiny, delicate woman playing a saxophone. Her hair billowed about her face in blue-black waves and the sharp edge of her collarbone jutted out from beneath porcelain skin. She wore a black skirt on which were printed enormous old roses, dusky pink, surrounded by soft green leaves. She was in her middle years or older, Letta thought. The instrument itself was a relic from another time and Letta couldn’t take her eyes off it. She had never seen one but she knew the word saxophone.
Shrill, wailing notes filled the air, dark and intense, followed by light trilling passages. The woman’s body moved in time to the music, urgent, determined, and Letta’s own heart quickened at the sound. Memories came flooding back. Her mother’s scent, soft arms around her, twirling, spinning, laughing.
Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah. The men in the field stopped. They stood facing the shed, their weapons hanging impotently at their sides. Letta forced herself to move, climbing over the rough ditch into the field. The ground was rough and uneven, the stumps of severed wheat blocking her path. She skirted the field, keeping as close to the ditch as she could, walking past the workers, who had stopped where they stood, all eyes on the shed roof. She tried to block the pain from her mind as the wheat stubs cut her legs. She could see him now. Finn. He was
tall and well built, his shoulders broad and his head covered in a forest of unkempt black hair on the top of his head and a wild straggly beard covering most of his face. He stood beside the shed but his eyes were on the field, his large head moving slowly from side to side, missing nothing, waiting to spring into action. Letta hurried on. She had to get to him before they finished playing. No-one looked at her, though she heard one man humming along to the music and could feel the heat emanating from his body as she stalked past him. Finally, she was so close to Finn that she could have touched him. She stopped. He was looking away from her towards the far end of the field.
‘Finn!’ Her voice emerged as little more than a whisper. She tried again. ‘Finn!’
This time he turned, startled. She held his gaze. He moved a stride towards her.
‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice deep and rich.
‘Marlo sent me.’
In a heartbeat, he was beside her, gripping her arms in his rough hands. ‘Marlo!’ he said. ‘You have seen Marlo?’
She nodded. In the background, the music was swelling to a climax.
‘He’s sick. In my house,’ she stammered.
‘Where?’ Finn asked, his eyes boring into her. He shook her ever so slightly. ‘Where?’
‘The wordsmith’s shop.’ She got the words out, and pulled away from him. And then she was running. Running and stumbling, sweat trickling down her back, her mouth dry. She thought she heard someone shout, but she didn’t stop to look back. Just as she neared the road, she tripped on a small stone, and went sprawling head first into the clay. The music stopped, to be replaced by an eerie silence for a moment, and then somewhere behind her, she could hear feet pounding the ground, voices calling, sharp whistles. Get up! The words roared in her head, and then she was on her feet again, and running onto the road. Only then did she risk looking over her shoulder. Back in the field, there was chaos, with people running in all directions. She couldn’t see Finn, but the roof of the shed was empty.
CHAPTER 6
#299
Name
Word to call person
AS LETTA opened her front door, the music of the saxophone was still in her ears. She could barely wait to tell Marlo all about it. Even remembering it stirred powerful emotions and memories. Was it always like that with music?
She sprinted up the stairs, not stopping to take off her coat. She stopped at the Monk’s Room. The door was open.
‘Marlo?’
There was no-one there. No sign that anyone had ever been there. Had he recovered enough to go down to the bedroom? She couldn’t imagine that. He had been so weak earlier. She hurried down there regardless, an uneasy feeling gnawing the pit of her stomach. She threw open the bedroom door. Everything was exactly as she left it. Where could he be? She hurried back downstairs, her mind racing. Could the gavvers have found him? If they had, wouldn’t they be here waiting for her? A sudden draught of cold air hit her. She walked towards the back door. It was ajar. Had he left? She ran to the door and out into the lane. He was lying there, not moving.
‘Marlo!’
He groaned but didn’t open his eyes. She looked up in alarm. She could see the street but mercifully no people. She had to get him inside before someone noticed. Grabbing him under the arms she dragged him, stride by stride, to the door and then over the threshold. As soon as he was inside she slammed the door and leant against it trying to get her breath, her arms aching. He moaned again. Had she hurt him? She knelt down and took his cold hand in hers. He opened his eyes.
‘Letta!’ He squeezed her hand.
‘What were you doing?’ Letta said. ‘Why didn’t you stay in the Monk’s Room?’
‘I thought I could get to the field. I felt better and …’
‘And?’
‘I shouldn’t stay here. I’m putting you in danger.’
‘Can you stand?’ Letta looked at him anxiously.
‘I think so,’ he said.
It took a long time for Letta to get him to his feet and even longer to make the long journey up the stairs, Marlo’s arm around her shoulder, their feet keeping time with one another. Finally, he was back in bed. As soon as he lay down, his eyes closed again.
Letta sank into the chair in the corner of the room and breathed a long sigh of relief. She could hear him breathing, moaning slightly. After an hour or so she got up and walked over to the bed. A stray wisp of hair covered his eye. Gently, she swept it away and then left her hand for a moment on his forehead. A shiver ran through her.
He sighed and opened his eyes. She pulled away from him, pretending to straighten the covers. He turned to her, his eyes full of questions.
‘I gave Finn the message,’ Letta said. ‘Now we have to wait.’
‘You saw the show?’ he asked.
Letta nodded. ‘A beautiful woman played music, a saxophone.’
Marlo smiled. ‘Leyla,’ he said.
‘It was amazing,’ Letta said. ‘The music. It is so long since I heard it.’
Marlo nodded again. ‘She plays beautifully,’ he said. ‘She used to work with Noa, until he banned music.’
She found it hard to believe that the woman would have left John Noa to go and live with Desecrators because of something like music. Did people never understand that they had to make sacrifices for Ark?
Silence filled the space between them but Letta felt that it was a comfortable silence with each one lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the rain was pelting down, hopping off the tin roof and interspersed with low grumbles of thunder.
She wondered where Benjamin was. Was he out in that weather? It was hard to believe that he had only been gone a few days. She lay back in her chair and gave herself over to the melody of the rain. She jumped when Marlo spoke.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are very brave.’
‘Am I?’ she said softly.
‘What do you want to do with your life, Letta?’ Marlo asked.
Letta shrugged. ‘I want to be a wordsmith. I want to be part of the new world. I don’t think about it much.’
Marlo nodded. ‘You think we can build a new world, here, in Ark?’
‘Of course,’ Letta said. ‘Don’t you?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not like this. Not without freedom.’
Letta frowned. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said. ‘John Noa wants what’s best for all of us. For humans and animals and the planet itself. You know what happened before. How could you risk everything again?’
Marlo shrugged. ‘Everything is a risk. Life is a risk. We have to be what we are. Our souls are not like the soul of a fox. Our hearts are not like the heart of a sparrow.’
She could see he was getting more passionate, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushed. She leaned in towards him, concentrating on his every word.
‘We are full of … full of … feelings. And yet …’
‘And yet?’ Letta prompted him.
‘Feeling isn’t even a List word.’
‘But … but …’ Letta struggled to put words on her thoughts. ‘If we give ourselves up to our feelings aren’t we destined to make the same mistakes all over again? There are so few of us left, Marlo. If we are to survive we have to compromise. Change. Not be like we were before. Not waste our time on abstract things, things that only lead us off the path.’
‘Things like music?’ Marlo cut across her.
She nodded, though her heart felt heavy.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Even music.’
Marlo sighed. ‘I envy you, Letta. I envy your ability to believe in Noa without question. I just know I can’t do it.’
He sank back on his pillow again and closed his eyes, leaving Letta alone with only the sound of the rain for company. His words stayed in the atmosphere, bright fireflies like she remembered from her childhood. Words darting all over the room.
Freedom. Music. Feelings.
Were they things they could live without? Images of Daniel taunted her. His mother’s face as th
ey took him away.
It wasn’t sadness that assailed her now but anger, her old nemesis, her temper. She got up and started to pace the room. Didn’t Daniel have a right to live here too? She had always been taught that it was John Noa who had built Ark, that it was to Noa that they owed their very survival. And yet, hadn’t they a right to live on the planet? She shook her head. There was no sense to her thoughts. She should go downstairs and get back to her work. Marlo and his rebellious thoughts had no place here in the wordsmith’s shop. She turned and looked at him sleeping quietly, a thin line of sweat on his upper lip. He looked so peaceful, she thought. So innocent.
In the shop, Letta settled down to her work. She looked in the drop box and found a little notebook with fifty words carefully written down with a slight explanation with each one. Her eye scanned them thoughtfully, delight flooding her heart as she went through them. This is what it was all about. New words. Words they didn’t know. Words that could be saved.
Smith: A person who works metal
Anvil: A block of iron on which metals are shaped
She had heard rumours that old Manus Burkked the blacksmith was unwell. He was an old man, maybe eighty or even more. He had lived through the age of technology, fought in the last war, and now he was going to die in a world very far removed from all of that.
A lot of old people left them their words before they died. She closed the little book carefully and took it to her desk. She pulled a card towards her, dipped her nib in the familiar red ink and started to write. Soon, she was lost in the world of the blacksmith. She barely noticed the noise from outside, the creaking of a cart as it passed the door, the barking of a dog, the pitter-patter of the rain.
As she wrote, her left calf began to cramp, sending spasms of pain through her leg. She stood up to try to ease it and walked across the floor. The door was open and outside she could see the cat collector’s cart and two of his men walking alongside it. She smiled. When she was a little girl she had believed they were literally cat collectors. One evening, when she saw them passing the shop she had taken Benjamin’s old cat, Fidget, and hidden him in a cupboard under the stairs.
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