by Terry Tyler
"Ma told me," he said. "It's nature's way of making sure that there are plenty of seeds for next year, because the cold will kill off more of them."
There, you see; he's still with us, because we remember stuff he said.
It's a long, straight road to Hamworth; as soon as we get near we can see a big sign, and three men watching us. My tummy flutters with nerves, and I hold back, 'specially when I see their swords.
"Don't be nervous," Byron says. "If they don't want us there, we'll just carry on walking."
When you've lived in Shackers' End all your life, though, you always feel like you're going to get into trouble, even when you've done nowt wrong.
The sign says, 'Hamworth. One of the Five Villages. Come in Peace or Turn Around'.
Byron drops my hand, holds both of his up, and walks ahead. "We come in peace," he says.
One of them, a big brute who looks like Lieutenant Ogg, steps forward. "Who are you and what do you want?"
"I'm Brian and this is Ava. We're looking for work, shelter and food," Byron says. "We're from a settlement in Cumbria."
"Why'd you leave?"
"No reason," I say. "Just lived there all our lives; time for a change."
"You tried Blackthorn?" another one asks.
"Yes," Byron says, "but we only stayed a few days."
We've changed our story―at the last place we stopped, there was someone who used to live on Lindisfarne, and we had a few dicey moments when she was asking us stuff we didn't know about. Didn't matter, because the next morning we just upped and left, but we can't run the risk of being quizzed again. We've dropped the bit about looking for Byron's sister, too, in case we like it here and want to stay, and we've added Blackthorn to the story because I'm scared I'll give myself away and mention something about it; I'm getting better at lying, but I don't always trust my mouth.
Ogg-man laughs. "I've heard there's some religious cult up there―did they hit you over the head with prayer books and send you packing?"
We laugh, too, and that's all the truth anyone's getting.
Chapter 43
Evie
The Five Villages
After loads of waiting around, and loads of questions, we're given a place to live.
It's an old world house but it might as well be a shack 'cause we can only use one room. The fella who took us here says that the floorboards aren't safe upstairs, and the back of the house has collapsed. It doesn't matter, the one room does us just fine; they've given us bedding, and there's a fireplace. We share the compost toilet with four other houses, and we've got chickens.
We have to work for our share of bread, milk, butter, logs, and so on; Byron is on guard duty for six hours a day, and I work in the bakery, doing my thing.
If I sound flat, it's 'cause I feel it. The governor, Mr Dawson, is cool, and a few people are friendly, but most of them give us weird looks.
All in all, it doesn't seem worth Gus dying for.
So perhaps this isn't where we're going.
I hate it here. They call us 'grocks', which is their word for travellers, and makes me feel like a skanky shacker all over again. In the bakery, they call me 'the grock girl'. Give it to the grock girl. Let the grock girl do it.
Like, I've got a fucking name.
We've been to a social thing they had in the village, which was quite fun 'cause we got drunk and danced, but there are lots of big menacing guys striding about everywhere. Everyone is on edge all the time, 'cause they've had trouble with bandits climbing over their perimeter fences at night, and they're scared of the Welsh lot down in Central.
They quiz us about Blackthorn, and we just keep repeating that we were only there for a few days.
Today in the bakery they're at it again, asking about this religious cult they've heard about, and whether or not it's true that a traveller had a vision from God. Makes me start thinking about all Ryder's lies, and Jay, and about Gus lying on the grass bleeding to death and I get all choked up―before I know it I've blurted out that it's a load of bollocks.
Suddenly all eyes are on me.
"How do you know?" asks a fat git called Alan.
"I think it sounds like a miracle," says this old bag called Primrose. "Faith in a higher power is what's missing from so many of our lives." Then she fixes me with a steely glare and tells me her daughter lives in Less Dilham, like that's supposed to mean owt to me.
"Agreed," says Alan, "and how can you give an opinion if you were only there for a few days?"
I feel myself colour up. "I-I don't know, it just seemed like it―"
"That's the trouble with you youngsters," says Primrose. "You don't think, you just make assumptions. Did you bother to talk to anyone about it?"
"Well, yes, but it sounded a bit weird―"
I tail off. I know how lame I sound, but they're not listening, in any case. A younger couple take over the conversation, saying that they could do with a bit of adventure, and they might pack their bags and set off for Blackthorn themselves.
"It's supposed to be great there," says the man. "Loads of jobs, and you can work your way up to be one of the governor's lieutenants, then you get loads of privileges."
"So they let you in, but you just left?" says Primrose. "Sounds a bit suspect to me."
Next thing I know, the rumour's going round that Blackthorn evicted us.
Byron says he's had enough.
"We're going to see Dawson and ask if we can go to live in one of the other villages, only this time we won't mention fucking Blackthorn."
And whaddya know, Dawson makes everything alright.
He invites us into his cute little house, and gives us tea and cherry cake.
"The Five Villages are united, by which I mean that we trade and support each other in times of trouble," Dawson says, "but in other ways we're quite separate, and each village is different. Hamworth is the gateway to the Five Villages from the north and, as a result, receives most people who are looking for sanctuary, but also gets the most trouble, which is why they can be a little, shall we say, over-cautious. Less Dilham is the smallest, and over the last decade they've rediscovered the old Christian religion; they reject the tree spirits. Melton Fields is now families and older folks only, while Markham, the largest, is a vibrant community with many innovative minds; they've taken in refugees from Central, with the result that we now have the prospect of new power sources, vehicles, more efficient industry and even, one day, old-world style communication systems." He looks dead excited about this. "D'you know, they've actually got an old world steam train going; they reckon that in time they'll have it running between there and here; isn't that amazing? In years to come it will be the town of the future, in the same way that Central used to be, before those ruffians wrecked it."
"Sounds brilliant," I say. "Can we go there?"
Dawson gives us the weird look that I've become used to since I've been in Hamworth. "I'm not sure it would suit you, to be honest."
I get my shirty head on. "Why not? We not smart enough?"
He smiles. "It's not that, not at all. But I hear you play your cards close to your chest. Markham receives visitors from other settlements, just to check out what's going on." He pauses, and raises his eyebrows. "Sometimes, the odd scout from Blackthorn."
I sneak a glance at Byron; his face is completely still.
Dawson reaches forward and refills my tea cup. "I wonder if you might be most suited to Ludwick, which has a mixture of all ages, and is just a practical, working village." He pauses again. "It's the most tucked away―and quite self-contained."
Byron looks at me, and I nod.
I say, "We'll go to Ludwick; we just want a quiet life."
Hope it's better than bloody Hamworth, or I'm off.
We pack up our few belongings, and Dawson takes us in his wagon, which is pretty cool. I haven't been in one since the trip out to the church with Ryder. Long time ago. I wonder if even that was all an act. Like, setting us up for what was to come.
The roads are knackered and cracked, but they're clear, and although lots of the fields are sodden and overgrown you can tell that the whole area is looked after.
"You can work out here, keeping the roads and verges maintained, if you like, Ava," Dawson says, when I comment on how good it all looks. "You don't have to be stuck inside in a bakery all the time, if you don't want to be."
I like Dawson. He reminds me of how Ryder used to be, before he became an arse.
Or maybe he was always was an arse, secretly. You'd have to be, to do what he did.
We reach Ludwick. I love that it's a real village, from the old world, not a town that's been chucked up since the Fall.
No shacks.
Dawson points out a big field, just before we enter the village.
"That's Grocks Field, where the travellers stay in the summer when they come for work." He laughs at the shock on my face. "No, don't worry, you won't have to stay there! You won't be grocks any more, if you live here, will you?"
First of all, we're taken to meet Governor Brennan. He seems like an arse, too, and my heart sinks into my boots all over again.
I let Byron do most of the talking. I don't trust myself. He makes up a load of stuff about our old community in Cumbria, and I try hard to remember it all; he sticks as close to the truth as possible, saying that I was a cook and he was a guard, but I wish I could get Gus's book out and take notes. I'm terrified of getting something wrong.
Dawson encourages us to talk about our background.
"If you're going to become part of a community, it's best to be fairly open. If you're evasive, people only become more curious―and it can look like you've got something to hide."
Right. Like poisoning the governor of Blackthorn. I shouldn't glance at Byron, but I can't help it. My mouth starts twitching at the thought of the mayhem we must have left behind.
"What's the matter, dear?" asks Governor Brennan.
"Nothing! Honest! Really, nothing!" My voice comes out dead high, like a little girl. Then I have to carry on talking in the same voice so he doesn't think I'm a nutter, and I can see Byron trying not to piss himself laughing.
Then it's same old, same old; we're taken to an empty house―"all the Five Villages keep a few houses in a reasonable state for any new arrivals," says Dawson―but this one is amazing. It's got a living room and a kitchen, and two bedrooms upstairs (an upstairs! Me, with a kitchen and an upstairs!), one of which is kept dark for fruit and vegetable storage. There's even a bathroom―the old toilet doesn't work but there's one in the garden, and there's a tap. With water coming out, so I can sit in the bath! Dawson warns me that it's only cold water, but I don't care.
There's a proper hut outside, filled with wood.
We can't believe our luck.
"All this?" I say. "We can just live here? Bloody hell! Thank you!"
Governor Brennan laughs, and suddenly he doesn't look like such an arse after all. I think of Gus; I thought he was a stuffy old sod, but once I got to know him he was one of the best people ever. I must remember that. Perhaps this governor is an okay guy, too, underneath.
"Well, it doesn't come free," he says. "You'll work hard, the same as everyone else in the village, but it's a good place to live. You'll be happy here."
Oh, I hope so.
When we curl up in bed on our first night, though, I find those daft girly tears running down my face again. Byron asks me what's wrong, and I tell him that I'm just so sad, 'cause Gus would have loved it here and I miss him so much.
"Perhaps if he's somewhere else, if there really is somewhere else―because you never know―he might know that you do. And we're the lucky ones, aren't we? Because we had him as our friend."
That makes me cry more, but in a different way.
Then we have our first ever shag in a real, warm bed and I try not to think about Gus any more because that would be too weird.
Governor Brennan says we're on two months' probation. That's okay. I get that. We're not about to do anything to make them chuck us out. We've agreed that we'll think again, come the spring. See how it goes; Byron says he'll feel safer if we're further south.
One thing we both love is that there's no money here. No chips and crowns. You grow your own vegetables and keep chickens, and, like in Hamworth, my work in the bakery and Byron's shifts on patrol earn us our share of flour and bread, milk, logs and all that. Otherwise, you barter; like, if I want some ham when Bob next door kills a pig, I can make some into a pie for him.
If you need anything medical, it's free. Brennan said everyone works together for the good of the village. Just like Ryder said we had to, in Blackthorn, except they don't need the Light to tell them how. Like I said; it's common sense.
The people in the bakery ask questions, but they're not pushy. Best of all, they don't have a lot to do with Hamworth.
The other day I mentioned that Byron and I didn't fit in there, and they started laughing; this man and his wife came in to pick up some bread, and they joined in. They were really nice, too; he's called Alder, and his wife is Summer.
"They're as mad as a box of frogs up there," said Alder. "Always ready to start a fight. Suppose it's because they've had to, so many times."
Summer put her arm through his. "Yeah, we're more chilled in Ludwick―we're pleased to have you here. A superb pastry cook and a hunky guy who's great with a sword and a bow and arrow―what's not to like?"
I can't get my head round this. I'm used to people looking down their noses at me. Here, though, they accept me. They say it doesn't matter where I come from, as long as I fit in here.
Charlie, who's always red-faced 'cause he's in charge of the ovens, said, "Yeah, for grocks, you'll do!"
I don't mind them calling me a grock, 'cause it's said jokingly.
I'm not a skanky dirt bag from the Blackthorn shacks, not any more.
I'm Ava from Ludwick, girlfriend of hunky Brian, who's great with a sword and a bow and arrow.
Pretty neat, huh?
We've been here a week and I'm working in the bakery, humming to myself and vaguely thinking how awesomely we have landed on our feet, but generally not thinking about much apart from the apple slices I'm arranging on this tart base, for Governor Brennan. I can hear some people talking in the background, at the little counter where the villagers come to get their food, but I'm not paying much attention.
I hear a child's laughter; I look round, and see a woman with two cute, fair-haired kids. One is a pretty little girl; I smile and wave, and she waves back.
I turn back to my work, and tune out, but then my ears pick up on one word the woman says.
One name.
She says Silas.
I put my fork and spoon down, standing totally still.
I listen.
She wants some of the crusty rolls with cheese on top for Silas.
The only time I've ever heard that name was when my mum told me it was what my father was called. Most people in Blackthorn are named after weather and plants and stuff, or old family names that have been handed down since the Fall.
I whip round.
The woman is watching her rolls being packed up; she's about to leave.
I turn to Poppy, who runs the bakery. "Who's that? Over there?"
She looks up. "That's Bree. Lives down past the green. You know her?"
"I-no. She said 'Silas'―who's that?"
Poppy gives me a weird look. "Her husband. What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost!"
My eyes follow Bree as she walks out o
f the door. "I might have―how old is he?"
She frowns. "I'm not sure. Bree's lived here all her life, Silas not so long―twelve, thirteen years, I think. Their oldest is eight, my youngest plays with her―"
"So you don't know how old he is?"
"I can't say for definite. Older than Bree by a bit. Forty, forty-one, I suppose."
I shut my eyes. That would make him seventeen or eighteen, twenty-three years ago, in August, 2117. When he might have had a one-night tumble with a girl called Rain.
"But he's not from here?"
"No, he was a grock. Him and Bree, they used to go travelling all over, before the kids. They went to France and Spain, all sorts. Where do you think you know him from, then?"
I don't want to say anything else. My head's whirling; since Dawson said that Blackthorn scouts visit Markham we're being so careful never to let our guard down, just in case, 'cause you never know who could be looking for us, and who could say what.
"Would it be okay if I took a break? Now? Like, just for fifteen minutes?"
Poppy shrugged. "Don't see why not. Long as you come back!"
I smile, sort of, to thank her, and dash out after the woman called Bree.
As soon as I'm outside I realise that I should have taken my jumper off the hook; it's bloody freezing out, with heavy skies and the odd snowflake falling.
I can't go back, though. Can't lose sight of her.
I follow her up the road, at a distance, until she turns up a lane.
It's the sort of lane you wouldn't be walking up unless you live there, cause it's just a few houses then a load of fields. I hang back. The house she stops at is lush, like something out of a picture book.
The kids are larking about as she lets them in, and I'm scared the little girl is going to look round and see me.
Bree shuts the door.
I just stand, and stare.
Twice, I nearly go up and knock on the door.
Twice, I lose my nerve.
I stand there shivering my arse off, for several minutes. I must look like a right head case.
