Marrella rises. “You are a very stupid girl. I’m looking for a plant. If I bring back a rock, they will think I’m as stupid as you.” Her words don’t even sting. I know I must take these plants back. The rock is split by frosts of past winters, and some small chips are covered in these little plants. As Marrella strides away, I quickly pry one out and take it with me.
We climb past the sign that points to Ski Slope and Lem Howell’s house. We climb and climb. I have never wandered this far from the Grand Hotel, but there’s no danger of getting lost because the path goes straight up. The trees thin, then disappear. Finally, we crest the hill at a broad plateau. For the first time, I turn to face downhill, and when I do, I catch my breath. It’s daylight now, a gray but full light, and the wispy fog has lifted. Down the hill lies the small valley that shelters the Grand Hotel. To the right, the rusting towers of Ski Slope rise. In the other direction, I see the landfill, the road to Kildevil, and the town itself, tucked against the shore. The bay looks like little more than a wide river. Across it, green and gray hills seem to roll forever. The land spreads before us like a beautiful cloth. A poem comes to me, unbidden:
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet . . .
Marrella looks startled. “What’s that?”
I feel myself blush. “Nothing. Just a poem. The view reminded me. It looks like the cloths of heaven.”
“Whatever that means,” Marrella mutters but she doesn’t move and I’m glad. I can’t take my eyes off the land. I have lived here for four years and never suspected such beauty.
“What is that river down there?” Marrella asks.
I hesitate to contradict her. “It’s not a river, it’s the sea.” “How can that be the sea? You are wrong.”
I try to explain. “This is a backwater of a long sound that reaches far inland. We are a day’s journey from the open sea by foot. The water is shallow and calm, but it is salt, and there are tides.”
“How do you know this?” she asks.
I’m relieved she does not argue. “They brought us here from St. Pearl by ship, but a large ship cannot navigate this far inland. The water is too shallow. We walked the last day of the journey. The road follows the shore, so I have seen the water from the open sea.”
“And that’s Kildevil?” she says, pointing to town. “Yes, it is.”
“I can’t go there until the day of my investiture. Have you ever been?”
“Once. We passed through on the way to the workcamp.”
“And what was it like?”
I want to say I can’t remember, but I do. The memory is all too clear. “We didn’t see much. We are not welcome in town. Those people would be happier if we were somewhere else.” I shudder inwardly at the memory of those closed faces, the people wordlessly lining the street, making a human fence to ensure that none of us slipped into their world. “Of course,” I add, “they will not feel that way about you.”
Her laughter is harsh. “They certainly won’t. I am very important to them.” She turns away and I’m forced to follow. The plateau at the top of the hill is barren, too rocky and exposed for most living things. But in the shelter of a boulder by a small, boggy pond Marrella finally finds a clump of small purple flowers. In this unpromising place they have only managed to bloom now, when everything else is finished. “This must be what they want. Uproot it.” I know it isn’t, but I pry the straggling plant from the gravel. Then we turn and retrace our path. A wind follows us down the hill. How lucky we are, I think, to be going to a place that is warm and sheltered, a place I am coming to think of, in spite of myself, as home.
The Lesson
When we enter the house, Erica shoos us past her kitchen, which is now filled with the most amazing smells. “Straight to William’s study. He’s waiting,” she says. She looks pinched and I realize she is anxious, too. As we enter the study, I feel the rock chip in my hand. Marrella plunks the clump of flowers, wilting now, down on William’s desk. Most of the earth shook off the roots on the walk home, but bits of dirt and rock chips still scatter across the polished wooden surface. I am horrified. William ignores the mess but looks horrified as well. “Asters?” he says. The disappointment is naked on his face. “This is what you found?”
To my surprise, Marrella responds to his disappointment and not with anger. She looks down. “They were the only flowers I saw,” she says softly. “I thought they were pretty.”
William turns away from us to the window. He sighs.
“Marrella, I can teach you nothing. I’m afraid the process must stop here. If you’d brought me something else . . .”
I thrust the rock chip into Marrella’s hand. She reacts right away. “Well, I did but it seemed so insignificant . . .” She holds the fragment out to him.
As William lifts it from her hand he is transformed.
“Lichen. Yes. This is what I hoped for. The best thing possible. Why did you not show it to me first?”
Marrella flounders. “I, I—”
“She had given it to me to hold, Master,” I say.
He looks confused, but to my relief says, “No matter. I had thought you might not have read the book or that the lessons were lost to you. It would have meant—but that doesn’t matter. Now we can get to work.” He pulls a disk toward him. “Look through the magnifying glass,” he tells Marrella and he begins to explain. “Lichens look like plants, but they are actually communities, or a marriage of plants if you will. A fungus and an alga live together in the lichen. The fungus provides the alga with water and anchors it. The alga uses the light of the sun to make food for the fungus. You see? They work together and both benefit. Do you remember what photosynthesis is?” he asks. She nods although I’m sure she is lying.
He’s so happy. It means so much to him that I find I am listening intently. And, of course, because I have read the book, I understand what he says. I vow then that I will learn, even if Marrella is unwilling. I will read what needs to be read and try to make sure she learns, too, just as they hoped I would. If it is this important to them, I must.
“. . . lichen live in some of the harshest climates on this planet,” William continues, “where other plants die. In burning deserts and arctic regions. But like you, Marrella, they react to the environment.” With this, he catches her interest for the first time.
“Like me?”
“Yes. They cannot grow where there is too much pollution. They also retain heavy metals such as lead and cadmium. Scientists can use lichen to determine the levels of heavy metals in the environment.”
At the word “scientists” Marrella pulls back. Inwardly, I do too. If techies were bad, scientists were worse, the source of all earth-destroying technology. Yet William speaks this word with reverence. I remember what Erica said last night, about things not being as I was told.
When we finally leave the study, the Master smiles.
“Change now. Erica has made a special meal.” It’s hard to believe that Marrella stormed from this room only yesterday. As we leave, the Master adds, “Join us, too, Blay. This is a celebration.”
I’m too stunned to speak, partly delighted that he thought to remember me, partly appalled. I need more time to learn how to eat without embarrassing myself. But he’s already gone. “Come, help me prepare,” Marrella says.
As soon as she closes the door to her room, she turns on me. “How did you know what to choose! How could you?” She’s furious.
“I don’t know, I just did,” I say. I cannot explain how I felt this morning. The feeling has faded now. Perhaps it was only my imagination.
She gives me a cold look. “Well, you did the right thing, pretending I had picked it up. Don’t get any ideas about trying to impress the Master. I am the one doing these tests.”
I wish I could
make her understand that I would be her friend. I lower my eyes. “You are the only reason I’m here. I would never betray you.”
“Make sure that’s so,” she says. I can’t tell if she believes me.
I am scrubbed clean when we enter the dining room a few minutes later, but I feel as if I’ve sprouted extra arms. I hardly know what to do with myself. But the soup smells delicious. I am just about to lift the bowl when Erica picks up her spoon. So do the others. Soup, I see, is to be eaten with a spoon. I’ve never tried this. I pick up my spoon and fill it carefully. It isn’t as hard as it looks. After the first few spoonfuls, I relax.
“Take some time off, Marrella,” William says. “I’ve done your noon UV readings. Blay can help us with the late afternoon observation set.”
“If this is to be a holiday, Blay and I will go for walk,” Erica says. She smiles and I know where she means to take me. My spoon falters, splashing red soup across the white tablecloth. “I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing the spoon, reaching toward the stain to pat it. “I’m sorry.”
Marrella sighs noisily.
“Think nothing of it,” Erica says. “The tablecloth will wash. Marrella, would you like to come with us?”
“No, thank you, I would rather read,” Marrella says.
I don’t believe this for a moment, but William is delighted. “That’s wonderful.”
My face still burns from my clumsiness. My heart pounds, too, but that has nothing to do with shame. Today, I meet Lem Howell.
The House on Ski Slope
In the kitchen, I work as slowly as possible. Too soon, everything is tidy.
“Ready?” Erica says. She has prepared another basket of food. I don’t have to ask where we are going. My knees feel weak but I nod. She smiles. “Good girl.” She hands me the sunscreen. “Put this on.”
“You were going to explain why I don’t need protective clothing,” I remind her as we step outside.
“Well, we’re beginning to believe the hole in the ozone layer might be repairing itself.”
“Can it do that?” The idea of a world without UV visors makes me forget where we are going.
“That’s exactly what the Way wants to know,” Erica says. “Marrella makes so many mistakes William has to check her work every day, but she’s part of a network of bio-indicators.”
“That’s what the Master said yesterday. Does the Commission know about this?”
“They might. We haven’t told them, but we know they’re watching us.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Blay, all the governments across North America have been in power far too long. They are old, corrupt, and weak. We’re hoping they haven’t got the energy to challenge us.”
“But . . .” I hesitate, remembering how I’ve upset her before.
“But you think the Commission should control these things,” she says. She doesn’t seem angry today, which makes it easier to agree.
“I only know what I’ve been told.”
“Yes, but, Blay, what if the Commission knew the earth was healing itself, but decided not to tell anyone?”
“Why would they do that?”
“Remember what I told you yesterday about the eco-warnings?”
“You said they aren’t real. That the Commission uses them to control people.”
“Can you believe that?”
“I know we were controlled at the workcamp. In more ways than we understood, I think.” I want to tell her about the apple drink at the Memory Day ceremony, then I remember who we’re about to visit and stop myself. “But protective clothing isn’t the same as eco-warnings. It doesn’t keep people in. It lets them go out.”
“Yes, but think what the fear of UV radiation does. Here, that UV clothing makes sure no one mistakes the workcamp children for ordinary people. In St. Pearl, the only people who live daytime are the ones who are allied with the Commission. The others live nighttime. It’s a way of making sure that the rich and poor are kept as far apart as possible. That suits the Commission. Here, in Kildevil, people don’t live nighttime because we’ve told them they no longer have to. If poorer people in the cities didn’t have to live nighttime, what do you think might happen?”
I think about St. Pearl. “I lived with a Tribe for about a year before I came here. Do you know about the Tribes?”
She nods. “Well-organized groups of homeless children,” she says, “with rules and social structure of their own.”
“That’s right. The Tribe that took me . . . that I lived with,” I correct myself to keep the story as far away from Hilary as I can, “they had taken over one of the sunken towers in the harbor. You know, one of the buildings abandoned when the waters rose.” Erica nods again so I continue. “We had a perfect view of the Core. Daytime and nighttime. The leaders watched for anything they could make use of. If there was a fire, they’d send out kids to see what could be lifted in the confusion. And it was like two different cities. The daytime people lived in the gated communities. Most of them never came to the Core, but if they did, they were completely protected. The nighttime people stole and gambled, sold themselves.” A shadow crosses her face, so I quickly add, “Most of those daytime people had nothing to do with us.”
“Exactly.” We have reached the path that branches off to Ski Slope. Erica pauses, panting a little. “This hill gets steeper every year,” she jokes. As we begin to walk again, she says, “Blay, do you believe the Commission cares about people like us?”
What happened to Hilary flickers across my mind. “More than they did before they set up places like the workcamp.”
“But there was a reason for that. The technocaust put a lot more children on the streets. Then, suddenly, there were death squads to ‘retire’ them. That sickened ordinary people. The Commission was faced with public pressure for the first time in many years.”
Somehow, she has read my mind. Death squad. The blackness opens a hole, my knees buckle . . .”Goodness, Blay, are you all right?” Erica catches me against her shoulder as I fall. She is warm and soft and smells like bread.
The black hole shrinks and disappears. “I’ll be okay,” I manage to say.
“Do you need to sit down?”
I shake my head. “It’s just, I just—there are things I can’t talk about.” My voice falls to a whisper.
Erica squeezes my shoulder. “I think I understand.” I appreciate her kindness, but how could she? Safe in this protected life of hers, how could she ever? Lem Howell’s house looms ahead. Just yesterday I ducked off this path to sneak up without being seen. Now Erica knocks on the door and opens it without waiting for a reply, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Lem,” she says, “Lem, are you here?”
A shaggy head bobs up from behind a barrier in one corner of the room. Lem Howell’s head. When he sees me, he ducks back down. Erica coaxes him like a child. “Now, Lem,” she says, “don’t be like that. This is the girl I told you about yesterday. This is Blay.”
“Like wheat?” The head pops back up again.
I’m so surprised I forget to be scared. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Blé, le graine de blé. It’s French for wheat.” He speaks in a quick, distracted way, like half his mind is elsewhere.
“Is it? I didn’t know that.” Could my parents have spoken another language? Any key to my past is precious.
“There,” Erica soothes, “she’s harmless, see? Come and meet her.”
With this, he stands and walks around the barrier. He’s a big man, but he moves like someone who expects to be struck down at any moment. He comes closer, but not close enough to touch. This suits me fine. I liked him better behind the barrier. Erica holds out the basket. “Look, Lem, I brought you more food. Why don’t you put it away?”
Lem takes the basket without getting any closer than necessary. He disappears into a side room. The kitchen, I guess. When he’s gone I look around. Like the outside, this isn’t like any place I’ve ever seen. The corner where
we found him seems to be some kind of workstation. Strange panels and modules climb the walls, some with blinking diodes. I have no idea what they are. Three identical objects stand in one corner. Long, narrow things on stands with white and black levers across them. The white levers are all the same, but the black ones are arranged in patterns of twos and threes. They look like some kind of simple inputting device.
Lem Howell pokes his head around the doorway. “Tea?”
“That would be very nice,” Erica says. She moves a stack of print books, lastbooks, and papers from an ancient-looking wooden bench and motions for me to sit with her. The house is very quiet. Ordinary noises come from the kitchen. I am sitting in Lem Howell’s house, waiting for him to bring us tea. I must be dreaming.
But I’m not. Lem Howell soon returns carrying a tray. He sweeps a small table clear with his elbow, sending papers cascading to the floor. Then he places the tray on the table and turns to us. He is huge and shaggy and terrifying at such close range. “Milk?” he asks. I nod numbly, my aversion to milk overridden by my fear. “Yes, thank you,” Erica says, as if this were a perfectly normal visit. After he pours our tea, Lem Howell takes a mug in his own huge hands and folds himself onto a stool in a far corner, facing us. An awkward silence settles with him. All the questions I should not ask rush into my head. Do you really glow orange in the dark? Did your wife drink poison? Question after impossible question until I think I will burst. I steal a glance at him. At the same moment, his eyes come up from his mug and meet mine. I look away quickly, but the sadness in those eyes makes me remember what Erica told me last night.
After what seems like years, Erica says, “Would you like to play some music after we finish our tea?”
“I’d rather show you the garden.”
“This time of year?” Erica is as surprised as I am.
“Been working out there,” he says. “I’d like some feedback.” Into my head pops a vision of newly dug graves. Lem Howell means to lure us outside, kill us, and throw our bodies into those graves.
The Secret Under My Skin Page 6
