The Revolution of Ivy

by Amy Engel

  “You okay?” Ash asks, and I force a smile when I meet her eyes.

  “Fine,” I say, and she doesn’t push, which I’m thankful for. I don’t know what I’d tell her if she did.

  She leaves me alone for a little while, presumably to go round up some clothes, and I take the moment of solitude gratefully. I wander slowly around the interior of the tent, getting used to the space. It’s more like a decent-sized room than a tent. There’s a cot on the right side, piled high with pillows and blankets, a crate next to it with a lantern and a few books. On the back wall is a small trunk, probably where Ash stores her clothes. The ground is covered with tacked-down oilcloth, and window flaps on both sides let in a hint of a breeze. There’s little decoration other than a tattered map of the old United States hanging on the far wall,and I move closer, run my fingers carefully over the fragile paper. There are small dark marks in certain spots on the map, but there’s no clue as to what they mean.

  “You found our map,” Ash says from behind me, and I whirl around. “Sorry,” she says, “didn’t meant to startle you.”

  “That’s okay.” I glance back at the map. “What’s it for?”

  “It was my dad’s,” Ash says. “He liked to keep track of where people came from, when they passed through.” She moves closer, points at some of the marks near what was once Virginia. “We’ve had a few groups from this part of the country. They said there’s a more centralized government there, but it’s harsh. Not much freedom. They wanted out.” Her finger trails across the map, all the way to California. “A couple of years ago we had some people all the way from the West Coast. They said there’s a fairly big settlement there, near where a city called San Diego used to be. A good place, according to them. They lived with us for the winter before setting out again. They were on a trek to walk from ocean to ocean.” She smiles as she speaks, but my heart curls into a painful ball at her words.

  “What?” Ash asks, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I clear my throat. “It’s nothing. I just knew someone, back in Westfall, who always wanted to see the ocean.” I look back at the map, desperate for something else to concentrate on. “Have you ever thought about leaving here? Exploring what else is out there?”

  “My dad never wanted to,” Ash says. “He thought it was smarter to stay here, where we know there’s food and we’re familiar with the land. He felt like leaving was too much of a risk. He never wanted to do anything that put Caleb or me in any unnecessary danger.”

  “But?” I ask, hearing a wary kind of wistfulness behind her words.

  Ash shrugs. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing what else is out there someday.” She holds out the bowl she has in her hand. “You better eat this before it gets cold. Rabbit stew.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “We eat a lot of rabbit.”

  “It smells great,” I tell her, meaning every word. “Definitely better than lizards and tree bark.” She’s brought a hunk of heavy dark bread as well. I finish it all in huge gulps, and have to resist licking the inside of the bowl when I’m done.

  “There’s more,” Ash says. “But first maybe you want to change clothes? Get cleaned up?”

  At her words I realize how itchy I am, from my scalp all the way to my toes. I think there’s dirt and blood caked in every crevice of my body. I can’t imagine how bad I smell. “Yes, that sounds good.”

  Ash leads me out of the tent and down toward the river. The sun is starting to set, and the noise of the camp has been reduced to a peaceful buzz, everyone settling in for dinner. We walk along the edge of the river, away from the camp a bit, and Ash points to a spot where the riverbank is flat and even, the water flowing gently. “This is where we wash off,” she tells me. “I’ve heard you have running water in Westfall. Nothing like that out here.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “The river is fine. At this point, I’ll just be happy to be clean.” I glance around. “What if someone comes along?”

  “The men go in that direction”—Ash hooks a thumb back over her shoulder—“so don’t worry about prying eyes.”

  I still stand uncertainly, but Ash doesn’t appear to have my reservations. She strips off her clothes in about five seconds flat and splashes into the river in a tangle of sun-browned limbs. She reminds me of a puppy, all big earnest eyes and eager warmth. “Hey, there’s soap in my bag, if you want to grab it,” she calls back to me.

  I tell myself there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not embarrassed for Ash to see me naked, but it leaves me feeling vulnerable. But I have to admit it feels good to shed myself of my smelly, dirt-streaked clothes. I leave them in a pile and join Ash in the water, which is surprisingly warm against my bare skin.

  The soap is coarse and scratches as much as it cleans, but I scrub hard anyway, suddenly anxious to rid myself of every speck of sweat, blood, and dirt. I dunk my head under the water and work the soap through my tangled hair, too.

  “Sorry,” I say, passing Ash what’s left of the bar of soap. “I used a lot of it.”

  “We have plenty,” Ash says. She pauses in washing and points at my forearm. “How’d you get the scars?”

  I glance down at my arm. “Dog bite.” I steel myself for her to ask the details, already weighing whether to tell the truth or make up a new version of the story. But Ash only nods, lifts her leg out of the water.

  “A wild dog got me right here when I was little,” she says, running her hand over a scar on her thigh. “Caleb shot it.” She lowers her leg and turns her arm my direction. A web of scar tissue covers her left biceps. “And this is from a mountain lion, just a couple of years ago.” She laughs. “I have a bunch more. I’m covered in scars.”

  “These are my only ones,” I say, my fingers sliding over the scars. They don’t bother me as much as they used to, not since Bishop changed the way I thought about them. And I realize from the lack of reaction that to Ash, the scars are just something that happened to me. They aren’t me. Not anymore. I look up to find Ash watching me, her head cocked.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You have sad eyes.” Ash makes the observation like it pains her, and I understand why Caleb worried about her wanting to find someone to save. Empathy probably doesn’t get you very far out here.

  “Not as sad as they were a few days ago,” I say, as lightly as I can, but Ash doesn’t smile.

  “If you ever want to talk about it—”

  “Thanks,” I say, cutting her off. “I’m going to get out. I’m starting to get cold.”

  There are towels in Ash’s bag, and a change of clothes for both of us. The pants she brought for me are a little short, but I roll them up to midcalf and they work fine. The sleeveless shirt is homespun and worn, but smells clean and fits well.

  Woodsmoke dances in the early-evening air as we head back to camp, and Ash points to a bonfire in the distance. “Come on,” she says. “We can drop our dirty clothes back at the tent and go sit around the fire.” She glances at me. “You don’t have to talk to anyone, if you don’t want to.”

  I give her a grateful smile. “It’s just a lot…getting used to this.” I tip my head up, breathe in the scents of river grass and smoke. The stars are starting to come out, faint glitter tossed across the lavender sky. They are the only thing in my whole word that look remotely familiar. “It’s like being in a dream you can’t wake up from.”

  “Sounds pretty awful,” Ash says.

  “Not awful exactly.” I don’t know how to explain it to her. That what I left behind wasn’t so great, either, except for Bishop. “Just very strange.”

  Ash finds Caleb on the edge of the fire pit and nudges him over so we all can fit on his blanket. He nods to me, which is probably his version of a friendly greeting. I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around them, and rest my chin on my knees. Just a few weeks ago a fire at night would have created nothing but sweat and sticky skin. But with a hint of fall in the air once the sun’s set, it’s the perfect temperature. Now that I’ve stopped movi
ng, weariness leaches into my bones, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel the buzz of excess energy again.

  I notice the way almost everyone stops to greet Caleb as they gather around the fire. “Is Caleb in charge here?” I ask Ash, careful to time the question when Caleb is talking to someone else.

  Ash smiles. “No one’s in charge. It’s not like Westfall.” She glances at Caleb. “But people respect his opinion. Just like they did my dad’s. But everyone’s free to make their own decisions, so long as they don’t hurt the group.”

  I nod, although it’s hard for me to fathom a place where the final say in everything you do isn’t dictated by someone else. In Westfall the hierarchy was so well-defined: President Lattimer, my father, Callie, Bishop…and finally, me, always last to be given a voice. Even though Bishop didn’t play by those rules, it didn’t change the fact that I was on the bottom rung of the totem pole in everyone else’s eyes. It will take time to adjust to making decisions based solely on what I want, not on what is expected of me, on what other people think is best.

  I let my eyes roam around the ring of faces, none of them familiar although I know at least some of them have to be from Westfall originally. I don’t see Mark or the two men who were put out with him. The three of them were the only people sentenced after I married Bishop, so there’s no one here who can contradict my story about why I was forced to leave Westfall. Maybe there will come a time when I’ll feel safe enough to tell Ash the truth. But it’s too big a risk to take now.

  “Have most of these people been with your group a long time?” I ask Ash.

  “It’s a mix,” Ash says. She’s cutting into an apple and holds out a slice for me. “Some have been here since before I was born, some are from Westfall originally, and some come from other places.”

  My gaze falls on an older couple next to us, and the man gives me a friendly smile but the woman only stares. I turn back toward Ash, but I can still feel the woman’s eyes on me.

  “Who is that?” I whisper to Ash, tilting my head toward the woman.

  “Who?” Ash leans back and looks to my right. “Oh, that’s Elizabeth. She’s from Westfall, too.”

  Just as Ash’s words register, the woman, Elizabeth, calls out. “You’re a Westfall, aren’t you?”

  I pretend I don’t hear her, my heart slamming against my ribs as I keep my gaze on the dancing flames. There’s a rustle of cloth as Elizabeth stands, the shuffle of feet through grass as she moves closer. Around us the voices have grown quiet. “You’re Justin Westfall’s daughter,” Elizabeth says. “The youngest one.”

  Ash looks at me, and I meet her eyes. “Ivy Westfall?” Ash whispers.

  I nod because I can’t find my voice.

  “She was supposed to marry the president’s son,” Elizabeth says and my head jerks toward her. She must have been put out in the last few years if she knows that.

  “That’s why they put you out?” Caleb says from my left. “Because you wouldn’t marry him?”

  “I already told you that,” I say, voice harsh. “Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Caleb says. “But you left out your last name. And who your groom was supposed to be.”

  “What does it matter?” I say, turning to look at him. His eyes are bright in the glow of the fire, watching me. I can feel that old reckless side of me starting to wake up, waiting for Caleb to push me into saying something I won’t be able to take back. A part of me hopes he will.

  I startle when I feel a hand on my head, whip around too fast and almost send Elizabeth spilling backward from where she’s crouching next to me. She reaches forward again and her hand smooths down my hair. It’s a gentle touch, what I imagine a mother’s touch must be like.

  “You sweet girl,” she says softly. “Such a brave, sweet girl.” She leans forward and enfolds me in her arms, kisses my cheek. I catch a glimpse of Ash’s smile as I close my eyes and allow myself to be held by this stranger. So now I know the answer. Maybe my father gave me something worth having after all, because being Ivy Westfall is to my advantage here.

  The fact that I’m actually a Lattimer is just one more secret I will have to keep.

  Chapter Six

  I’ve been living in Ash’s tent for five days, and I’m still confused every time I open my eyes. It takes me a second, my mind scrolling through the possibilities: my childhood bedroom, my bed with Bishop, the hard ground and long grass, the empty house in Birch Tree, before settling on the correct one. And every morning, when I figure out where I am, the pain hits all over again, a violent punch right to my heart.

  Growing up, our next-door neighbor lost her six-year-old son to the flu one particularly harsh January. I lay in bed on those ice-blue winter mornings and listened to her scream out her grief. Each rising of the sun reopening her wound. Now I understand—how sleep allows you to forget, but your pain wakes with the dawn, worse because for a split second you don’t remember what you’ve suffered. It’s a trick made even crueler by the fact that it happens over and over again. I can’t stop the hurt from washing over me, but I don’t let myself dwell on what, and who, I’ve lost. I don’t hope for things that aren’t meant to be mine. I tell myself never, not maybe someday, and try to remember that it won’t always hurt this much—one day the pain will fade to the mellow ache of memory.

  Today Ash is already gone, but she’s left a bowl of berries and a hunk of corn bread next to my cot. She always brings me breakfast, whether I’m awake or not. Always greets me with a smile and glowing eyes. She is probably the most open, kindest person I’ve ever known. It’s no wonder Caleb hovers, worried her kindness might be her downfall. I wish I could be honest with her, tell her my true story, especially when late at night she speaks about her childhood, the pain of her father dying, her fear of losing Caleb, too. But I don’t know if there’s a limit to her goodness. Maybe her affection for me ends where my allegiance to Bishop Lattimer begins.

  I eat my breakfast while pulling on my clothes. Over the past few days, Ash has managed to gather up a respectable pile of clothing for me, including a second pair of shoes. I untangle my hair with the brush we share and tie it back in a ponytail. This morning we’re helping to wash clothes down at the river, a task that caused Ash to wrinkle her nose when she told me about it. But she promised that tomorrow we’d do something more exciting, like Caleb teaching me how to snare small game. I’m not sure about spending a day with Caleb, but being able to catch my own dinner, something beyond lizards, is a skill I’d like to have.

  Although fall is tiptoeing up on us, the daytime temperatures don’t yet reflect the change, and the air is already thick and sticky when I step out of the tent, pausing to stretch my good arm high above my head. I don’t feel comfortable here yet. Maybe it won’t ever happen. Maybe no place will ever feel like home to me again. But I’m slowly learning the rhythms of this life, the way everyone follows the cues of sun and moon, how tasks are divvied up based on what needs doing, not the gender of those doing the work, how people are accepted so long as they don’t cause trouble and they pull their own weight. It’s a harder life than the one I knew, but in a lot of ways it’s a freer one, too.

  Caleb’s tent is right next to ours, and as I pass, raised voices drift out from inside it. Caleb’s and another man’s. I take a step closer, not eavesdropping exactly, but definitely curious. I hear Caleb’s voice. “I’m just telling you what she said.”

  “Well, she’s lying,” the other man says. Before the sound of his voice can register, Caleb’s front tent flap is thrown open and I’m once again face-to-face with Mark Laird.

  I stumble back a step and we stare at each other. It feels like those first few seconds by the riverbank, only this time he’s not smiling. And his face and hair are still streaked and matted with clumps of dried blood, his temple a mottled purple. I glance down and see shredded, bloody socks. All of which sends a thrill of brutal satisfaction through me. Belatedly, I notice that he has his bag gripped in one hand. Caleb took it from me whe
n we got to camp, said he would return it to its rightful owner if he ever showed up again. Mark lifts the bag and shakes it in my direction. “Told him you found this?”

  “Yes,” I say, holding his eyes. “I did find it.”

  Caleb pushes out of his tent behind Mark, gaze swinging between the two of us. “Mark says you couldn’t have found his bag the way you say you did, Ivy.” He doesn’t sound like he’s outright accusing me of anything, at least not yet. He’s positioned equally distant between the two of us. Giving the impression that he’s not taking sides. Or that he wants to be able to get in between us fast if all hell breaks loose.

  “Ivy,” Marks says, a kind of slithery whisper. “Told him your name, did you?” And there’s his cunning smile. “Your whole name?”

  My stomach drops to my feet, my heart tripping in my chest. But Mark’s forgetting I know things about him as well, things I’m guessing Caleb has no idea about. “Does Caleb know why you were put out?” I throw back at Mark, and his lips press together in a thin white line.

  “You two know each other?” Caleb asks, eyes narrowing.

  “From Westfall,” Mark says without taking his eyes off me. “I think Ivy and I need to have a private conversation.” My first instinct is to say hell no and punch him in the face, but we both have something the other needs: our silence.

  “Ivy?” Caleb asks.

  “It’s fine,” I say, gaze never leaving Mark.

  After a second, Caleb nods. “Okay. I’ll be in my tent if either of you need me.” He pauses to look at each of us in turn. “It would be better for everyone if you could find a way to work this out between you.”

  I hate the thought of Mark stepping into the place where Ash and I sleep, but we need some privacy to talk, and there’s no way I’m leaving camp with him. I turn on my heel and walk back into my tent, while he limps after me. I stand on the far side of the tent, but when the flap falls closed behind him, he still feels too close.