by Terry Tyler
I have a most adequate apartment in Thorn Lodge, the residence commissioned by Wolf's great-grandfather, Phoenix, when he raised Blackthorn from the ashes of the old world, nearly ninety years ago. On occasion, I will socialise with my fellow lieutenants in the Phoenix Tavern, but most are single men interested in demonstrations of strength, prowess with the fairer sex and tolerance of excessive alcohol consumption, for which I do not care. Just three are married; Will Parks, Nicholas Chen and Linden Ward. Even the two female lieutenants, Sarah Thomas and Violet Lincoln, have more in common with the rest of our number than I do, but I like to think my colleagues respect me, because they know that, when the chips are down (an old world expression I rather like), I can be relied upon one hundred per cent.
They know I will never 'flake out' or 'snitch'.
I did not always agree with Falcon's decisions and actions, and I do not always agree with Wolf's, but mine is not to reason why. Falcon appreciated that my strength was brain rather than brawn, and did not send me into conflict situations; neither does Wolf. My grasp of language was much revered by Falcon; he often asked me for the right word to use in a given situation. He would say I was wasted as a guard, but I did not agree with this. I function best when obeying the instructions and fulfilling the wishes of my superiors.
Wolf runs a tighter ship than Falcon; the jail block has been extended, and the Law House is constantly busy. One of my duties is to oversee the jail block, though its day-to-day control falls to four second lieutenants: Fisher, Lynch, Ham and Munroe. Their correctional procedures are more zealous than I would like, but they were chosen by Wolf and I don't have to deal with the incarcerated on a daily basis, so to question these methods would be outside my purview.
It has been said (by Violet Lincoln, once, when she was inebriated) that I close my eyes to anything I don't want to see. If this is true―and I am not saying it isn't―it is because concentrating only on my allotted duties is the best way for me to serve Wolf North and the city of Blackthorn. Should I give my attention to that which does not concern me directly, my own tasks would suffer.
I supervise the guards on the western half of south wall, which runs from South Gate in the city centre, down past the Agricultural Zone to the bakery, the cowshed, piggery, henhouses and Shackers' End. I preside over South Gate itself, with all its comings and goings, and the monthly South Gate market. I am aware that I have a busier schedule than any other lieutenant; on occasion, when tired, I may feel slightly disgruntled that I have less leisure time than my colleagues, but on the whole I am proud that Wolf has entrusted with so many tasks, in these often most problematic areas of Blackthorn.
My job keeps me fully occupied from dawn to dusk and beyond. Now and again, if unready for sleep when my work is done, I will enjoy a glass of wine in the Phoenix Tavern before I turn in, though I admit that this depends on who else is present; these days, I peep in through the window before committing myself.
The registrar, Haystack, becomes garrulous and argumentative when drunk, and, in the past, Lieutenants Slovis and Ogg have tried to goad me with their jests about Wolf's personal life.
"Spill it, Hemsley," they would say. "You're always in and out of the North house; which poor bastard has our Wolfie got tied up in that cellar of his this week?"
The cellar is a favourite myth enjoyed by Slovis, Ogg and some of the second lieutenants; I have no doubt that it is entirely fictional. Aside from this, I find discussion about our governor's personal life distasteful.
Of course, I don't say so. I know some consider me a prig; bad enough that I don't avail myself of the services provided by the ladies of Moor House.
I cannot help but hear the odd scandalous tale; these float around Blackthorn to provide mindless entertainment for those with nothing more important to think about. I believe Wolf had his friends when he was younger, though I have seen no evidence of romantic attachment for some years. That activities within past relationships may have leant towards the unconventional is not my business, though an event occurred twelve years ago, when Falcon was alive, that troubles me even now.
One of Wolf's friends had abused his generosity in a most disrespectful fashion. Of course this had to be punished, and a traveller was coerced into fighting the boy in question in the now abandoned arena out towards East Gate.
The Eight housed a weekly knock-out contest, with the final fight to the death, in the spirit of gladiatorial Rome. Entrance into the competition was used as a punishment for misdemeanours, though the incentive of huge cash prizes meant that impoverished shackers would put their own names forward.
On this day, the cards were weighted in the traveller's favour; Wolf's former friend was no match for him.
Dead Boy. That was what we called him.
I try not to think about it. My part in the affair was not one of my proudest moments.
To atone, I talk to the young men and women incarcerated in the jail block for crimes against Blackthorn, and try to set them back on the right path.
Yet each day the memories float back into my head.
Two years on, Falcon died and Wolf shut The Eight down. He declared that he wished Blackthorn to evolve in a fashion more civilised than that of his father and grandfather's eras.
Some applauded this, while many more mourned its passing; The Eight was a popular weekly entertainment for all.
Others suggested that he feared the lower echelons having the opportunity to display their strength; indeed, the young Darius Fletcher was the recipient of the cash prize on more than one occasion, which goes some way to explaining why many shackers now follow his lead.
One or two speculated that Wolf's new public stance on what he called the 'culture of violence' was to take attention away from the deeds he committed in private.
I take no notice of such gossip. My duty is to serve, not judge.
The Eight now stands empty, used only for city ceremonies.
The growing crowd of outliers at the South Gate weighs heavily upon me.
Sometimes, carrying out my orders is not easy. I understand Wolf's thinking; our first responsibility has to be to the people of Blackthorn. We cannot feed the world. But when I climb the steps of Lookout 12 and stare down at the crowd by the gate, my heart goes out to those poor souls.
Today I see a woman trying to soothe a tearful, scrawny child, assuring him that soon they will find food and safety. I'm about to attract her attention and throw down the oatcakes from my pocket―each morning I make up a small pack of two, in case an emergency occurs and I am unable to get home for my regular meal times―when the guard at my side puts a hand out to stop me.
"Not a good idea, if you don't mind me saying, sir. You throw that down, we'll have mayhem down there. And there's still apples on trees, late blackberries, fish in the rivers, and anyone who says they can't catch a rabbit round these parts must be walking around with their eyes shut."
He's right. Of course he's right.
I try to be kind, though, within the remit of my duties.
I try to remember that we are all skin and bone, flesh and blood, whether governor or ditch cleaner, though too many seem determined to underline our differences, not least of all Darius Fletcher, who stirs the workers to fever pitch over minor grievances that they might otherwise have shrugged off as their lot in life.
Even when not involved in a specific march or protest, the shackers are a constant thorn in our side. Level one and two misdemeanours such as petty theft and vandalism, public disorder and minor assault occur on an almost daily basis, and will often merit only a small fine, particularly if there is no room in the jail block. Severe crimes, such as intentional wounding, arson or serious theft, are dealt with by a panel of seven lieutenants who vote on the sentence to be served.
Convicted rapists and murderers are either evicted or hanged, depending on whether we believe their crime to be a one-off or the product of a diseased mind; nobody wants to send a psychopath out into the world, but taking a human being's l
ife is never easy.
I must make decisions concerning outliers who attempt to climb my section of the south wall. Some guards would let loose arrows to kill without hesitation if left to their own devices, but if I can reach the location of the break-in before this happens, I will detain the trespasser for the night then send them on their way with a warning of harsher treatment next time.
This way, I know they will get a meal, however meagre. They climb our walls because they are hungry, that's all.
Yes, I feel sympathy for the people of Boltwick and Mulgrave, but Wolf's words were true: from the day Phoenix North established Blackthorn, outliers were given the opportunity to live here. Their chosen independence comes with a cost. Registering as a Blackthorn citizen means you will never go hungry, and will always have the protection of our walls and guards.
I truly believe that the decisions Wolf makes are for the good of all, challenged as they are by those who fail to see the bigger picture. As long as I am breathing, I intend to do all I can to ease his burden, as I did his father's.
I was born to serve; I serve the leaders of this great city of Blackthorn.
Chapter 6
Evie
I can't take my eyes off the stained glass windows. They're so beautiful, the angels and the old gods in bright red, blue, yellow; most of it is smashed, but there's a whole panel still intact. When the sun shines through, I feel as though I'm not in an ancient, broken down building on this little hill, surrounded by trees that Ryder says wouldn't have been here before the Fall, but somewhere magical.
"It makes you feel something, doesn't it?" He comes up behind me and puts his arm round my shoulder. "I feel privileged to be here."
That makes tears well up in my eyes, 'cause I do, too.
Ryder looks so happy. The sun shining through the windows lights up his face.
It's a bit of a pit, really; I caught a glimpse of human shit in one corner―how much of a pig do you have to be to crap inside instead of going outdoors?―the floor is littered with dead birds, animal bones and faded rags, and there's a vague smell of piss, but I love it. It's so quiet. Like the walls have peace trapped inside them.
At the front is a round wooden box called a pulpit, Ryder says, where a priest would stand and tell the audience what their god said. There is a piano with big pipes to let out the sound, but the keys don't work any more. We find damp old books containing the songs they used to sing, and their holy stories. The Christian god was actually called God, so he must have been the main one, and old world people would also worship his son, Jesus, and Jesus's mother, Mary.
There's a model of Jesus, hanging from a cross. Over two thousand years ago people nailed him to it and left him to die.
Byron Lewis is busy looking for artefacts for Governor North. There's not much, but he's got some stones from the floors with brass pictures of men on, and he takes the model of Jesus, too. Star and Joe are outside looking at the stones with the names of dead people, Laurel and Gale are larking around like a couple of daft kids, but Ryder and I sit on the only bench that's not all broken down, and drink in the atmosphere.
He says, "The seats would have been taken for firewood in the early days after the Fall, I imagine. It's great that this church is still standing at all."
"Maybe some of the trees were planted for dead people, and their spirits protected it. I'm just amazed you found that chalice. I would've thought stuff like that would get nicked."
"Ah, as soon as the old world died, such things became valueless. You couldn't eat, burn or protect yourself with them, so they got left."
Ryder says he'd like to show Wolf North the chalice, and Byron says, "Are you sure, mate? He'll want to keep it."
Byron doesn't act all guard-ish; he talks to us like we're normal people―and, as Laurel pointed out, he's quite hot. He's thin but muscly and strong-looking, with long, very dark, shiny hair.
I shut my eyes for a moment, and imagine what it would have been like to be sitting here before the Fall. I would be dressed in a cute frock, with some of those awesome shoes that women used to wear, silly and pointy with crazy high heels, and I'd be going back to my big, warm house with all the lovely gadgets.
Ryder breaks into my dream. "Sitting like this, you can feel the old god, can't you? Like he's sleeping, waiting to be woken up again."
I breathe in the musty smell of the building, and think about that. "Yeah. Like, sitting here, you can believe him and Jesus were real."
My hands are in my lap; Ryder takes one of them in his, and squeezes it. I sneak a glance at him; he looks kind of emotional.
"I'm glad you feel it, too." His voice is a whisper.
I feel dead close to him, all of a sudden. Kind of emotional, as well. I hope I'm not going to get a daft crush on him. He is so lovely, though.
When we walk outside, the god feelings fade away, but Ryder keeps looking back over his shoulder.
"You look like you want to stay," I say.
He smiles back at me. "I do. I don't know―it feels like everything's right in there, somehow." He shakes his head and laughs. "What am I like, eh?"
The journey back takes a long time; it's further out than I thought. I don't mind. I love it. I don't want to talk to the others, I just want to look. Not that there's anything much to see, just bits of cracked road, walls of old houses with trees growing through them, the odd piece of rusty metal and a fair few rabbits who stop to look at us, with startled eyes. But it's great to be out of Blackthorn, if only so I can see that we're not missing owt.
We enter Blackthorn through South Gate, and I asked to be dropped off in the city centre, 'cause I want to go over to the spirit field and see Morning's apple tree. Byron says we might as well all get out here; he's taking Ryder up to show Wolfie the chalice.
I hope he doesn't take it from him. It belongs to Ryder.
Gale comes with me to the spirit field. We have to walk down by the big market, which is shut on Sundays, and on past the New Market Tavern. People from the blocks are sitting outside, drinking. A couple of blokes call out shitty remarks to us. Dirty shackers daring to enter their territory.
Bastards. We're no different from them, 'cept we're scruffier.
Two women stare at me like I'm a lump of cack.
Fuck 'em.
They've got pretty, shiny hair 'cause they can buy proper shampoo that's made in the laboratories; we wash ours with cheap soap. My hair is a good colour, a nice, rich brown, but it's thick and tangles easily, so mostly I do the sides in cornrows, then plait it all in one long rope over my shoulder.
These two women are wearing smart tops and boots with no mud on them. My old jumper is a huge mucky green thing that must have been knitted by someone cross-eyed. My faded trousers have got a hole in one knee, and my boots are laced up with string. Gale doesn't look any better, and he needs a shave.
Yeah, they know we're shackers, alright.
One of the blokes shouts out, "Piss off, scumbags, you're making the place look dirty."
Gale shouts at him to go fuck himself, and I give them the finger.
It's a fair walk out to the spirit field, past big grain stores and the forge, but they're quiet on Sundays. We reach the path that leads to the field, and I relax.
My friend Jay doesn't believe in the tree spirits at all. He thinks someone made it up 'cause it would be too depressing to think we just die and it all goes black and that's that. I bet if he died he'd still want a tree, though. If he goes before me, I'm going to plant one, then sit by it and say, "Told you. You're in the tree now. So who was right, huh?"
Even though I'm not totally sure about it.
The spirit field is crowded these days. The far end, where the first people were buried, is up by the north wall. Dad says they'll have to knock the wall down to extend the field, 'cause more and more of us die all the time.
Gale and I sit under Morning's little tree and touch its trunk, like we always do, and Gale tells her about the church. He's prattling away but I'm not
listening; I'm looking up at the sky and wondering if the old god is thinking what a pair of gormos we are for believing that our sister's soul is in an apple tree.
We walk back through the woods as the light fades. Past North Gate; one of the guards catches my eye and I smile at him, because it's the friendly thing to do, but he just looks away. Probably doesn't want to be smiled at by a skanky shacker in a baggy jumper with a hole in it and muddy boots.
When he turns back I give him the finger, too.
I'm not skanky, even if my clothes aren't up to much, but he looks at me like I smell. Bet he wouldn't say no, though. People say I'm pretty and Laurel says she's jealous of my figure, 'cause I'm thin but my tits are big. That guard will never get to see them, though, so he's the loser.
"Evie," says Gale, "why is there no gate down Shackers' End?"
I think about this for a moment. South Gate is in the city centre, North Gate is behind the woods, and East Gate is in nob territory. Shackers' End, at the west of Blackthorn, is as big as the whole of the city centre, blocks and nob land put together, but we don't have a gate.
"I dunno. Prob'ly they don't trust us not to sneak it open and let in outliers, or something."
Gale laughs. "I totally would, wouldn't you? I'd smash the guards over the head, then let them come and have a drink in the Beer Hut."
Yeah. That's why there's no gate down Shackers' End.
Chapter 7
Byron Lewis V
The rota says I'm on patrol, which is okay by me.
I try to go out alone whenever possible, but Hemsley says that while Boltwick and Mulgrave are still simmering we must go in threes.
