by Ally Condie
They decided to center all their efforts on increasing productivity and physical health. Those at the highest level of Official voted to eliminate distractions such as excess poetry and music while retaining an optimal amount to enhance culture and satiate the desire for experiencing art. The Hundred Committees, one for each area of the arts, were formed to oversee the choices.
This was the beginning of the Society’s abuse of power. They also ceased to have each generation vote on whether or not they wanted to live under Society’s rule. The Society began to remove Anomalies and Aberrations from the general population and isolate or eliminate those who caused the most trouble.
One of the poems that the Society did not approve for the Hundred Poems was Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar.” It has become an informal password between members of our rebellion. The poem references two important aspects of the Rising:
1. A leader called the Pilot directs the Rising and
2. Those who belong to the Rising believe it is possible to cross back into the better days of the Society — the time before the Hundred Selections.
Some of the Anomalies who escaped the Society in its early years have joined the Rising. Though the Rising now exists in all parts of the Society, it remains strongest in the Border and Outer Provinces, particularly where Aberrations have been sent in increasing numbers since the advent of the Hundreds.
“Did you already know all of that?” Vick asks.
“Some,” I say. “I knew the part about the Pilot and the Rising. And I knew about the Hundred Committees, of course.”
“And about destroying Aberrations and Anomalies,” Vick says.
“Right,” I agree. My voice is bitter.
“When I heard you saying the poem over the first boy in the water,” Vick says, “I thought you might be telling me you were part of the Rising.”
“No,” I say.
“Not even when your father was leading?”
“No.” I don’t say more. I don’t agree with what my father did but I don’t betray him either. That’s another fine line I don’t like to get caught on the wrong side of.
“None of the other decoys recognized the words,” Vick says. “You’d think more Aberrations would have known about the Rising and told their children.”
“Maybe all of the ones who did figured out how to get away before the Society starting sending us to the villages,” I say.
“And the farmers didn’t belong to the Rising,” Vick says. “I thought that might be why you were leading us to them — so we could join up.”
“I wasn’t leading you anywhere,” I say. “The farmers knew about the Rising. But I don’t think they were part of it.”
“You don’t know much,” Vick says with a grin.
I have to laugh. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“I thought you had some kind of greater purpose,” Vick says thoughtfully. “Gathering people to bring to the Rising. But you came into the Carving to save yourself and get back to the girl you’re in love with. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” I agree. It’s the truth. He can think less of me if he wants.
“Good enough,” Vick says. “Good night.”
When I scratch into the stone with my piece of agate, it leaves clean white marks. This compass won’t work, of course. It can’t open. The arrow will never spin, but I carve anyway. I need to find another piece of agate. I’m wearing down this one with carving instead of killing.
While the other two sleep, I finish the compass. When I’m done, I turn it in my hand so that its arrow points in the direction I believe to be north and I lie down to rest. Does Cassia still have the real compass, the one that my aunt and uncle saved for me?
She stands on top of the hill again. A small round piece of gold in her hands: the compass. A disk of brighter gold on the horizon: the sun rising.
She opens the compass and looks at the arrow.
Tears on her face, wind in her hair.
She wears a green dress.
Her skirt brushes the grass when she bends down to put the compass on the ground. When she stands up again her hands are empty.
Xander waits behind her. He holds out his hand.
“He’s gone,” he tells her. “I’m here.” His voice sounds sad. Hopeful.
No, I start to say, but Xander tells the truth. I’m not there, not really. I’m only a shadow watching in the sky. They’re real. I’m not anymore.
“Ky,” Eli says, shaking me. “Ky, wake up. What’s wrong?”
Vick flicks on the flashlight and shines it in my eyes. “You were having a nightmare,” he says. “What about?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, looking down at the stone in my hand.
The arrow of this compass is locked into place. No spinning. No alteration. Like me with Cassia. Locked on one idea, one thing in the sky. One truth to hold to when everything else falls to dust around me.
CHAPTER 16
CASSIA
I n my dream he stands in front of the sun, so he looks dark when I know that he is light. “Cassia,” he says, and the tenderness in his voice brings tears to my eyes. “Cassia, it’s me.”
I can’t speak; I reach out my arms, smiling, crying, so glad not to be alone.
“I’m going to step away now,” he says. “It will be bright. But you have to open your eyes.”
“They’re open,” I say, confused. How else could I see him?
“No,” he says. “You’re asleep. You need to wake up. It’s time.”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” That is all I can think of. That he might go.
“Yes,” he says.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “Please.”
“You have to open your eyes,” he says again, and so I do, I wake up to a sky full of light.
But Xander is not here.
It’s a waste of water to cry, I tell myself, but I can’t seem to stop. The tears stream down my face, making paths in the dust. I try not to sob; I don’t want to wake Indie, who still sleeps in spite of the sun. After seeing the blue-marked bodies yesterday, we walked all day along the dry streambed of this second canyon. We saw nothing and no one.
I put my hands up to my face and leave them there, feeling the warmth of my own tears.
I’m so afraid, I think. For me, for Ky. I thought that we were in the wrong canyon because I couldn’t see any trace of him. But if they turned him into ash, I would never know where he had been.
I always hoped I would find him — through all those months planting seeds, when I rode in that windowless air ship piloted through the night, during that long run over to the Carving.
But now there might not be anything left to find, a voice in my head nags at me. Ky might be gone and the Rising, too. What if the Pilot died and no one took his or her place?
I glance over at Indie and find myself wondering if she is really my friend. Maybe she’s a spy, I think, sent by my Official to watch me fail and die in the Carving so that the Official knows how her experiment played out all the way to the end.
Where are these thoughts coming from? I wonder, and then it hits me. I’m sick.
Illness rarely happens in the Society, but of course I’m not in the Society. My mind sorts through all the variables at play: exhaustion, dehydration, excess mental strain, insufficient food. This was bound to happen.
The realization makes me feel better. If I’m sick, then I’m not myself. I don’t truly believe these thoughts about Ky and Indie and the Rising. And my mind is so muddled I’m forgetting that my Official wasn’t the one who started this experiment. I remember that flicker in her eyes as she lied to me outside the Museum in Oria. She didn’t know who put Ky’s name in the Matching pool.
I take a deep breath. For a moment, the feeling from my dream of Xander comes back to me and I am comforted. “Open your eyes,” he told me. What was it Xander would expect me to see? I look around the cave where we camped for the night. I see Indie, the rocks, my pack with the tablets insid
e.
The blue ones, at least in some way, were given to me not by the Society, but by Xander, whom I trust. I’ve waited long enough.
It takes me a long time to open up the compartment because I can’t seem to get my fingers to work. Finally, I pop out the first blue tablet in the package, shove it in my mouth, and swallow, hard. It’s the first time I’ve ever taken a tablet — to my knowledge, anyway. For a moment I picture Grandfather’s face in my mind, and he looks disappointed.
I look back down at the hollow where the blue tablet was, expecting to see empty space. But there’s something there — a small strip of paper.
Port paper. I unfold it, hands still trembling. Sealed in its compartment, the paper stayed safe, but it will disintegrate soon now that it’s reached the air.
Occupation: Medic. Chance of permanent assignment and promotion to physic: 97.3 %.
“Oh, Xander,” I whisper.
This is a piece of Xander’s official Matching information. The information I never did view on the microcard; all of the things I thought I already knew. I look at the sealed tablets in my hand. How did he do this? How did he get the scrap inside? Are there more?
I picture him now, printing out a copy of his information from the port, tearing each line carefully into strips and finding a way to put them inside the packaging. He must have guessed that I never looked at the microcard; he knew I turned away and chose to see Ky.
It’s like Ky and the papers he gave me back in the Borough. Two boys, two stories written on scraps and passed on to me. My eyes burn with tears because Xander’s story is one I should have already known.
Look at me again, he seems to say.
I break open another tablet from its compartment. The next paper says: Full name: Xander Thomas Carrow.
A memory comes back to me, of myself as a child in the Borough waiting for Xander to come out and play.
“Xander. Thomas. Carrow!” I called, hopping from one stone on his walk to the next. I was small and often forgot to hush when approaching someone else’s house. Xander’s name, I thought, was nice to say. It sounded exactly right. Each word had two syllables, a perfect rhythm for marching.
“You don’t have to yell,” Xander said. He opened the door and smiled at me. “I’m right here.”
I miss Xander, and I can’t seem to stop myself from tearing into more of the tablets — not to swallow down any more blue, but to see what the scraps say:
Has lived in Mapletree Borough since birth.
Favorite leisure activity: swimming.
Favorite recreation activity: games.
Peers listed Xander Carrow’s name as the student they most admired 87.6 % of the time.
Favorite color: red.
That’s a surprise. I always thought Xander’s favorite color was green. What else don’t I know about him?
I smile, feeling stronger already. When I glance over at Indie I see that she still sleeps. I feel the strongest urge to keep moving, so I decide to step outside and see better this place that we came into in the dark.
At first glance it seems like just a wide open spot in the canyon, like many others, honeycombed with caves and tumbled with rocks and smoothed with undulating stone walls. But then, as I look around again, I see that one of the walls appears strange.
I walk across the dry streambed and put my hand against the rock. The feel of it is rough under my hand. But it’s not quite right. It’s too perfect.
That’s how I know it’s Society.
In its perfection I see the cracks. I remember the metered breath of the woman in one of the Hundred Songs and how Ky told me that the Society knows that we like to hear them breathe. We like to know they’re human, but even the humanity they present is careful and calculated.
My heart sinks. If the Society is here then the Rising cannot be.
I walk along the wall, running my hand along it, looking for the crack where the Society meets the Carving, and as I come closer to a clump of tangled dark bushes I see something lying on the ground.
It’s the boy. The one who ran with us to the Carving and then came into this canyon instead.
He’s curled up on his side. His eyes are closed. A small sprinkling of dust kicked up by the wind covers his skin and hair and clothes. His hands are discolored and red with blood and so is the place on the canyon wall where he clawed and clawed and couldn’t enter. I close my eyes. The sight of that dried red blood, those crystals of canyon dirt, makes me think of the sugar and red-bled berries on Grandfather’s pie plate and it makes me sick.
I open my eyes again and look at the boy. Can I do anything for him? I lean closer and see that his lips are stained blue. Since I never trained as a medic, I know almost nothing about helping people. He doesn’t breathe. I check the spot on his wrist where I’ve learned a pulse can be taken, but it doesn’t beat.
“Cassia,” someone whispers, and I whirl around.
It’s Indie. I breathe out in relief. “It’s that boy,” I say.
Indie crouches next to me. “He’s dead,” she says. She looks at his hands. “What was he doing?”
“I think he was trying to get inside,” I say, pointing. “They’ve made this look like rock, but I think it’s a door.” Indie stands up next to me and we both look at the bloody rock and the boy’s hands. “He couldn’t get in,” I say. “And then he took the blue tablet, but it was too late.”
Indie looks at me, her eyes darting and searching.
“We have to get out of this canyon,” I say. “The Society’s in it. I can tell.”
Indie pauses.“You’re right,” she says after a moment. “We should go back to the other canyon. At least it had water.”
“Do you think we’ll have to walk back and cross where we came over earlier?” I say, shuddering involuntarily as I think of all those bodies on top of the Carving.
“We can go over here,” Indie says. “We have a rope now.” She points to the roots of the trees clinging to the side of the canyon and growing where no trees should be able to grow. “It will save us time.” She opens her pack and reaches inside for the rope. As I watch her, she takes it out and slings it over her shoulder and then carefully rearranges something left in her pack.
The wasp’s nest, I think. “You’ve kept it safe,” I say.
“What?” Indie asks, startled.
“Your wasp nest,” I tell her. “It’s not broken.”
Indie nods, looking wary. I must have said something wrong, but I can’t think of what it might be. A deep weariness seems to have come over me and I have the strangest desire to simply curl up like the boy and rest there on the ground.
On the top of the Carving, we don’t look in the direction where the bodies would be. We’re too far away to see anything anyway.
I don’t speak. Neither does Indie. We move fast across the Carving under the cold wind and sky. The running wakes me up and reminds me that I’m still alive, that I cannot lie down to rest yet, no matter how much I want to.
It seems like Indie and I might be the only two living people in the Outer Provinces.
Indie secures the rope on the other side. “Come on,” she says, and we move back down into the first canyon, where we began. We might not have found signs of Ky here, but at least there is water, and nothing of the Society that we’ve noticed. Yet.
Hope looks like a footprint, a half footprint where someone grew careless and stepped into soft mud that later hardened too thick to blow away in the evening and morning winds.
I try not to think of other prints I’ve seen in these canyons, fossil remains of times so long past that nothing is left but imprints or bones of what was, what once lived. This mark is recent. I have to believe that. I have to believe that someone else is alive here. And I have to believe that it might be Ky.
CHAPTER 17
KY
We climb out of the Carving. Behind us lie the canyons and the farmers’ township. Below us, the plain stretches out long and wide, brown and gold-grassed. Clump
s of trees cluster along a stream and on the other side of the plain the blue mountains rise beyond with snow on their peaks. Snow that stays.
It is a long way to go in any season — and especially now at the very edge of winter. I know our odds aren’t good, but I’m still glad to have made it this far.
“It’s so far,” Eli says next to me, his voice shaky.
“It might not be as far as it looks on the map,” I say.
“Let’s move to that first group of trees,” Vick suggests.
“Is it safe?” Eli asks, looking up at the sky.
“If we’re careful,” Vick says, already moving, his eyes on the stream. “That stream’s different from the one in the canyon. I bet the fish here are big ones.”
We make our way out to the first clump of trees. “How much do you know about fishing?” Vick asks me.
“Nothing,” I say. I don’t even know much about water. There wasn’t much of it near our village except what the Society piped in. And the streams back in the canyons aren’t wide and slow in places like this one. They’re smaller, quicker. “Aren’t the fish dead by now? Isn’t the water too cold?”
“Moving water rarely freezes,” Vick tells me. He crouches down and looks into the river, where things move. “We could catch these,” he says excitedly. “I bet they’re brown trout. They’re so good for eating.”
I’m already crouched next to him, trying to figure it out too. “How can we do it?”
“They’re finishing spawning,” Vick tells us. “They’re sluggish. We can reach in and scoop them up if we get close enough. There’s not much sport it in,” he says regretfully. “We’d never have done this back home. But there we had line.”
“Where is back home?” I ask Vick.
He looks at me, considering, but maybe he figures that since he knows now where I’m from he can tell me where he started, too. “I’m from Camas,” he says. “You should see it. The mountains are bigger than the ones over there.” He gestures across the plain. “The streams are full of fish.” Then he stops. Looks back at the water where things move in the deep.
