"A misfortune," Bray said.
"They have other reasons to be angry," Samron explained. "Jonas, the injured man here at the settlement, revealed that he had tortured the men. One of the healers overheard him telling Enoch. She told the widows that they have no bodies to burn and mourn."
"I'm sorry for their loss."
Samron shook his head. "Jonas is the face of the stories we have heard about the islands, come to visit us. He is the sum of everyone we have lost. The widows want revenge."
"He will die, anyway, if what the healers say is true," Bray said. "They will get their revenge, one way or another."
"I do not think that is good enough." Samron fell silent as they watched Enoch speaking with the group of angry widows. After some conversation that Bray couldn't hear, they nodded their heads, seemingly satisfied.
Enoch walked over to Bray, Kirby, and Flora. "I have informed the soldiers of our plans. I am preparing to speak with our people. We will leave tomorrow afternoon."
Bray nodded. "We are ready."
Enoch looked as if he had more troubles on his mind.
Bray said, "I heard about the widows. I am sorry they lost their husbands."
"I have prepared something for them, during the speech I will give. Hopefully it will ease the pain of seeing more of our people go off to war."
Bray nodded. He'd seen too many people stripped of their loved ones.
Chapter 54: Bray
Bray, Kirby, and Flora stood along one of the platform's edges looking on to it, next to a line of Halifax soldiers, all gathered around the four sides, breathing the cold, night air as they watched the spectacle at the center. A smaller group of Halifax men, women, and children danced around a bonfire, moving rhythmically, swaying their arms. Paint adorned children's faces as they raised their voices in song. The women lent their voices, too, creating music that was at the same time haunting, beautiful, and unlike anything Bray had heard. For a moment, he recalled the fire dirge in Brighton, but that was a song of mourning, meant to appease the gods, to assuage the hearts of people losing someone to the pyre's flames. This was a song meant to inspire.
A song of war.
Enoch sat on the very back of the platform, outside the circle of dance, a leader without a special robe, without a book or a sword, or any army of followers behind him. His clothes were as dirty and stained as the others. Every so often, the dancing people looked at him, and he nodded with a confident look of approval. A group of soldiers sat nearby, guns slung around their shoulders. The ceremony was an interesting sight, but other thoughts preoccupied Bray as he swigged from his water flask. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen once the ceremony was over, and they were marching the next day. Would the preparation of these people be enough to fight against The Arches' army?
And they were an army. He'd see what a bridge full of people looked like, even through the mist. Every woman, and child in The Arches had been taught to fight. They'd lived on the islands for generations—they knew the terrain, the weaknesses, and the ways to defend it. They'd certainly planned for an attack like this.
The surprise would even those odds, and so would the guns.
But would that be enough?
Bray felt a surge of anger as he thought of Bartholomew, Jonathan, and the soldiers, jeering and slicing at him as they fought a battle they'd rigged for him to lose. He was going back for William. But there were other reasons, too.
Revenge.
Bray hunkered down as he took another sip of water. Another night's sleep would've given him some much-needed strength, but he didn't have time to heal all his wounds. William might have moments, hours to live.
Staring at the soldiers around the platform, Bray recalled the night before his father had left for the last Great War.
Bray had been too young to fight, but old enough to understand the implications of his father leaving for such a battle. He knew he might never return. Many men might've spent the night boasting about the demons they'd kill and the treasures they'd find, but not Fuller. The day had been memorable in its normalcy. Fuller had spent most of the day doing tasks around the house: cooking, cleaning, and laughing heartily. It wasn't until dusk turned to night that Fuller became quiet, watching the fire, his mind wandering while he told his stories. He laughed, but in a brooding way that seemed a little like sadness. When it was time to rest, Fuller had remained awake, watching the flames dance as he looked between Bray and his mother. Bray had promised himself he'd stay awake. He wanted to say goodbye to his father. But eventually, he'd become so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.
Bray didn't remember when he'd fallen asleep, but he had.
When he'd awoken, Fuller was gone and his mother was preparing breakfast, dabbing the tears on her face. Bray had never seen Fuller again.
Bray pushed away those thoughts as he focused on the coming march. He needed focus, not memories of an event he'd never change. He watched as a few of the children on the platform smiled, pointing and waving at men around the edges that were obviously their fathers, or uncles, or relatives, going off to war.
Loud cries from the platform drew his attention.
Enoch rose. He raised his hands, and a hush fell over the crowd as the dancers made their way off the platform. Bray recalled the other name Enoch had called himself. The Bravest One. Projecting his voice so that it echoed from one corner of the settlement to the other, off the walls of the buildings and the metal doors that guarded each room, Enoch spoke to his men, women, and children, his voice rising and falling as he fell into a speech that was inspiring, even in its strange sounds. Every so often, the men and women clapped their hands. The soldiers raised their weapons in the air, shouting responses, until their voices were hoarse and their cheeks were red from the cold.
They were ready to fight.
Enoch beckoned over at Bray, Kirby, and Flora, and the crowd swiveled to look at them, shouting a few appreciative responses. They weren't heroes, but they had fared better than when they had come in.
Enoch's speech swept into a finale as he said some last words, and the crowd cheered.
And then Enoch fell silent. He beckoned to a few soldiers standing along the edges of the platform behind him, who seemed as if they were on the verge of a command. Bray watched as they scurried off. A few moments later they reappeared, bringing a sagging, lifeless man that Bray thought was dead onto the platform. The man lifted his head, taking in the crowd with squinting, hateful eyes.
Jonas.
Bray followed Enoch's gaze across the platform, as he beckoned to the other side. A group of five women had crept up and were waiting. The widows. Bray frowned as the soldiers brought Jonas to the center of the platform, dropped him in the middle, and retreated hastily.
The cheering turned to hisses.
Heads swiveled from Jonas to the cluster of waiting, widowed women.
Frantic, even in his weakened state, Jonas propped himself up on his elbows, with enough strength to make a pained determination of what was going on. Soldiers emerged from the crowd, handing over some rusted, beaten axes to the waiting women, who took them purposefully. They strode across the platform. Jonas's face turned to fear as he realized what was going on.
The crowd yelled louder as the widows took the center of the platform, standing over Jonas with the rusted axes. Enoch yelled a final word, and then a woman took the head of the group, screaming some hateful things in her language. Tears streamed from her eyes as she turned to the others, who cried tears of their own. Jonas opened his mouth to utter a plea, but no one listened.
The woman stepped forward, raising her axe.
She swung.
The axe stuck in the meaty flesh of Jonas's leg.
Jonas screamed.
She ripped it out.
The others shrieked, descending on Jonas.
They hacked and sliced, drowning out Jonas's screams.
Blood splattered.
Flesh fell from the axe's blades as they
raised them for more swings.
Jonas crumbled under the weight of the blows as blood puddled around him, falling flat on his back. He held up his hands to deflect the blows, but the women kept screaming and swinging, cutting off several fingers, pulping the remainder of his hands with the bloodied weapons. He cried out in agony as the last of his strength gave out, his last scream ceased, and his body went limp.
The women kept hacking, long after he was dead.
Chapter 55: William
A voice called from outside William's door. Startled, he scrambled to his feet and looked at the entrance, taking in the morning light underneath the crack.
"It's just me, William," Berta said. "I have breakfast."
A relief he could barely fathom crossed William's mind as Berta opened the door, carrying in the tray of food. She smiled, as if today were a normal day, and he was just a boy she was taking care of, rather than a dirty prisoner that had been locked up for days.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"I-I'm fine," he managed.
"You seem sick," Berta said with a frown. "Is your fever returning?"
"No, I'm all right," William answered.
Did it matter, after what he'd seen, after what he'd been through?
"I-I'm okay," he said again, reassuring her.
"I brought some soup," Berta said, setting the tray down and shutting the door to a crack behind her.
William couldn't even think about eating, but hunger got the better of him, and he scarfed down the mostly tasteless broth. The lukewarm liquid filled some of the emptiness in his stomach, even though he wasn't sure he'd hold it down. His thoughts returned to escape.
"I spoke with Deacon. We took a walk. We spoke about things," William said.
Berta nodded. "He told me. He will have a test for you soon. If you earn his trust, he will let you back into the building you were in before, with The Important Ones. You will be taken care of."
"I'll do whatever he needs." William nodded fervently.
"That's a good boy," Berta said, with a smile that might be relief.
"I thought about what you said," William continued. "I know Deacon is being cautious by keeping me here. I know that he needs to make sure the islands are protected. That all makes sense to me now."
Berta nodded with a look that showed she'd come to the same realization a while ago.
"This place is better than the wild, and better than the place I came from," William said, feeling the broth churn in his stomach. "It is better than any of the buildings into which I have crept, avoiding dangers and people who wanted to kill me, or Savages who wanted to pick my bones clean."
"We are safe here," Berta agreed. "We are protected."
"I want to help Deacon. I want to help The Arches. I will do whatever he asks." William couldn't help some tears from falling from his eyes. He wiped them away as Berta leaned closer, patting his shoulder. She looked as if she were working through horrible memories of her own.
"It will be all right, William," Berta said, her voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't heard since she'd told her story.
Finishing his meal, William dabbed at the corners of his mouth as his mother had taught him, nodding in an obedient way that always made adults happy. He remained silent as Berta stood, took the tray, and returned to the door.
"Berta?" William asked, making her pause. "I have a favor to ask," William looked away, as if he was embarrassed. "The chamber pot I have been using is barely large enough. It's…well, it's full."
An expression of pity crossed Berta's face as she watched him. "I will empty it for you."
"It will still smell." William lowered his eyes in shame. "I was hoping I might go outside. I just need some air. I will go in the woods, and then return."
She looked at the door, probably questioning whether the guard outside would agree with the decision.
"Please," William whispered, mustering more tears. "It will only be a minute."
After a moment of internal debate, she said, "Come with me. But make it quick."
**
William walked outside, grateful to be out of a room he associated with terrified thoughts of death. A guard stood near the entrance, a flat sword hanging from his scabbard, watching William. William nodded subserviently as he crept off into the nearest patch of trees.
"Far enough," the guard called after him.
William stopped and looked around. All he saw was thick forest, patches of snow, and sticks poking above the ground. He looked over his shoulder. Berta and the guard watched him. He wasn't getting any farther than they wanted him to go.
"Be quick about it," the guard said, with a lack of concern.
William meekly said, "I need some privacy."
The guard shook his head. "Not happening."
William slumped his shoulders, ashamed. He looked at Berta with a question on his face, wiping away what might look like tears, from a distance.
"He'll be fine," he heard Berta tell the guard quietly. "There is no way off the island. Let the boy do what he needs."
"Make it quick," the guard called. "A few feet into the woods. That's it."
William nodded appreciatively as he walked into the woods, slipping into a thick patch of pines that were hanging onto their needles. He looked over his shoulder. Berta and the guard were barely visible through the trees. He waited until they were looking away, talking. Then he scurried further.
Before he knew it, he was running, weaving between more trees and over snow and getting farther from the house that was his prison. He'd only thought as far as the beginnings of the plan. Now that he'd executed it, he had no idea what to do.
William wove through the trees, getting farther in the forest, certain that he didn't have much time to explore before they came looking for him. He left tracks he didn't have time, or the ability, to cover. The island was flat and snow-covered, with more roots than he'd seen on the first island—probably a reason there weren't more houses, or inhabitants.
Fear washed over William as he questioned what he was doing. He was taking a risk that might kill him. He kept going, his feet taking over for fear until he glimpsed water in the distance. Somehow he'd reached the edge of the island. He looked behind him, waiting for shouts of alarm when the guard or Berta realized he was out of sight, but he didn't hear anything.
Yet.
He ran through more trees and thick bushes, climbing down the riverbank and onto an area of small rocks that bordered the river. Murky water swept past the island. Tall rocks jutted out of the river. A hundred feet away, the mainland was a place of freedom that he couldn't reach. William looked at that patch of land as if it he might will himself over to it, even though he'd more likely drown.
He looked behind him. No Berta, no guard. He couldn't have much more time.
Defeated, William was about to head away when he spotted movement on the opposite bank. Two figures crept through the underbrush, approaching the river. He tensed as he watched what might be soldiers, spying on him, waiting to report back to Deacon. But they weren't soldiers.
Demons.
William watched with curiosity as two of the twisted men skidded down the opposite riverbank and to the water, kneeling on the shore and scooping water thirstily into their mouths.
Without realizing what he was doing, William called out to them. "Hey!"
His voice died over the rush of the water. The demons kept drinking.
He shouted louder, "Hey!"
The demons cocked their bulbous heads, listening. They looked around.
William looked behind him, seeing or hearing nothing. He looked back at the demons. One of them shifted its head, catching sight of him as he waved his hands. William's frustration grew as he realized he might not get another chance at freedom.
"Over here! Please come and help me!" he called to the demons.
The twisted men watched him, probably recalling some buried memory of drowning. Or maybe they knew the water was too deep. They rose
to their feet, shoulders heaving as they stared, but they didn't move. One of them leaned back down to drink some more water. Hopelessness washed over William as the other demon turned to look over its shoulder and into the woods, probably about to leave.
Maybe my power is gone.
"Please!" William shouted, his last recourse before he turned around.
It was hopeless. The demons weren't coming. The second demon stood next to its distracted brother, looking into the forest, and William said goodbye to his foolish hope.
The demon turned back around, looking at him.
It took a step.
Chapter 56: Deacon
"Deacon."
Four of Deacon's soldiers walked into the hallway where he stood. All were apprehensive.
"What is it?" Deacon asked, turning.
"You ordered us to get a Savage, or two," said one of the four men, whom he had sent out the day before.
"Do you have what I requested?"
The soldier looked as if he might soil his bowels, such was his fear. He looked at his friend. "We hunted for Savages in the forest, but none were close, so we crossed to the top of the western mountains. We managed to capture one and tie him up, but we had trouble getting him back."
"What happened?" Deacon asked.
"He fell down the hill and snapped his neck."
Deacon shook his head in anger.
The other soldier cut in. "That's when we ran into these scouts. What they have to say might be more important." He swallowed as he tried to deflect their failure. "We wanted to make sure they got the message back safely."
Turning to the other two, waiting men, Deacon asked, "What message do you have?"
One of the scouts said, "Last night, we got close enough to the Halifax settlement to see smoke from a large fire coming from inside. The Halifax people were chanting and singing. It sounded as if all of the people were gathered in some sort of ceremony. We also heard screaming."
"Screaming?"
"We can't be sure who it was," said the man, "but we thought we heard words in our language in those screams."
The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series) Page 19
