She stood on the walkway built into the side of the wall and watched them go. Alan, riding ahead of the two carts with Moll at his side, led the way. She felt her heart sink when they disappeared into the darkness, guided only by his knowledge of the area and his instinct. They were in safe hands but the fact that he was willing to leave in darkness spoke volumes.
The settlement of Hope bore some small resemblance to Abbingdon in that the houses themselves were quite densely packed with narrow streets in places and wide open squares in others. They were all made from locally sourced timber or salvaged scrap metal, but most had come a little further than just shelter and were pleasant homes that brimmed over with character.
There was no clear path along the compacted mud roads to the house she was looking for and she made many wrong turns before she found it. The description had been clear - a log house of one storey with a double chimney made from old metal ducting. Front door red. Windows on the left but boarded up on the right. Number 62.
It was being hemmed in on both sides by open-front market stalls which were on their way to becoming shops in their own right, the sides being boarded up with good quality aluminum sheeting and the rickety tables being replaced with real furniture. Across from the front door was another house which could only have been a handful of feet away and the same towards the back. There would be little to see from the window other than more bricks, she realised.
There were lights on when she arrived and it was probably one of the few properties to actually benefit from the solar collector mounted in the centre of Hope on top of a shipping container. She knocked several times on the door and examined the package in her arms, preparing to hand it over. When it opened, it was answered by a beautiful white-haired woman of around thirty who had a slender physique and the most incredible obsidian eyes that glistened in the light from the lamps outside.
“Yes?” she asked in a silky-soft voice. “Can I help you?”
“I-” began Sarah but she found herself struggling to find the right words.
“It's okay,” she said. “I know about my father. We weren't very close. Come in and try not to cry.”
The woman stepped aside and made room for her to enter. She led the way into the living room which was sparsely furnished but had a delightful fire crackling nicely in the hearth. There were a number of wooden chairs and a single low table in the middle of the room but not a lot else. A stone floor. Bare walls.
“I'm Ellen,” said the woman. “Can I get you some tea?”
“That would be lovely, thanks. I came here to pass on these belongings to your father but I guess they're yours now.” Sarah felt a little strange saying it in such a matter-of-fact way but the odd woman hadn't really left her much choice.
“Who are they from?” she asked as she glided towards the kitchen where a stove gave off an angry glow.
“I guess he was your cousin, Michael Nibbs?”
Ellen let out a snort of laughter that, through the open-plan rooms, Sarah easily heard.
“Michael Nibbs? I haven't seen him in an age. How is he?”
“Recovering from his own loss,” said Sarah. “His parents were murdered.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Please, have a seat.”
The kettle wasn't long in reaching the boil and soon Ellen had returned with a tray loaded with chipped china mugs bearing faded blue markings, matching saucers and a fat, black teapot wrapped in some kind of cozy. To Sarah it felt like there wasn't much that would shock this woman and as she poured out the hot tea her steady hands showed no signs of whatever it was that she actually felt beneath all that beauty.
“Do you know what it is?” asked Ellen when they were both sat down.
“I'm afraid I don't. Michael never said.”
“I guess we should take a look then?”
She passed her a cup before undoing the knots that held the bundle together. As she unwrapped it, smaller packages tumbled out onto the floor. They were all neatly wrapped in cloth and when Ellen had finished unpacking them all there were roughly twenty of these smaller parcels inside.
“Ah,” she said with a grin. “I know what they are.”
With her delicate fingers she deftly unwrapped one and handed it to Sarah, who held it up to the light. It was a small, colourful little figure made from plastic and painted to look like a man. It's arms and legs moved and even its head could be turned left and right.
“This must be a child's toy,” said Sarah. “I'm sure I've seen them before.”
“Quite likely. We've seen more and more people arriving here with these kinds of packages.”
“Really?”
“I deal with them on a daily basis. Treating their wounds, their ailments, that sort of thing.”
“That's right,” said Sarah. “Tarrick mentioned you work in triage?” Ellen laughed.
“You could call it that I suppose. I help people and in turn I see deeper than most. I come across these things when they're forced to take off their clothes for whatever reason. They hide them in the strangest places.”
“But why?”
“People are desperate. They're second and third generation survivors and the past is becoming more and more mystical, more far-fetched, more... Other-worldly. The stories of flying cars and magic weapons are becoming the stuff of legend and trinkets like these-” She held one up so that the fire danced across the smooth, wet-looking plastic. “Are gods to them, pieces of divinity they can carry around with them to remind them that there was once a heavenly place and that maybe one day they can return to it.”
“That's insane!” said Sarah. “Why would people do that?”
Ellen cocked her head and crossed one leg delicately over the other.
“You're an exception, Sarah. I suspect that there was someone in your life who took the time to show you how to read and ever since then you've been immersed in the thoughts of a world you've never seen, of people you've never met.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked.
“You're bleeding with it,” she laughed. “You're well-spoken and thoughtful. You're carrying a weapon - several to be precise and there isn't a man escorting you around or doing the talking for you.”
“Why would there be?”
“Because now you'll start to see that this world is particularly cruel to our sex. It always has been but now it's able to shake off the chains that society shackled it down with and it’s running free again. Take a look around - you'll see very few women like you, Sarah.”
“I see you,” she replied. “And the woman at the purifier, Annie.”
“We're like these figures. We're relics from a forgotten age. We've been lucky - my mother taught me words and gave me books to read. She showed me how to stand up for myself, to work with men and not for them. She did all this while my father, who is now dead, tried to crush her. So you wonder why I don't mourn for him. I could never mourn for a man who would fight so-called Slavers whilst being one himself.”
Ellen spat the last words and struggled to maintain her icy exterior but when the first thawed tear ran down her pale cheek she let out a single sob. Her hand instantly clamped over it.
“I'm sorry,” said Sarah.
“Don't be,” she managed to say. “Be sorry for those who follow us.”
She nodded and sipped her tea if only to have something to do in the silence that followed. Ellen was wrestling with her emotions, trying to tie them down and she stared at the fire, still clutching the little figure in her hand. There were so many of them. Why did Michael Nibbs feel it was so important to return them to his Uncle?
“I'm fine,” the pale woman said after a time. “There's no point dwelling on it. It is what it is. Tell me, where did you say you were from?”
“Pine Lodge.”
“Where's that?”
“About five days ride west and a little south. Michael was on his way north and was near there when he and his family were ambushed.”
“And subsequently murdered.
I'm sorry for him. I really am.”
Sarah finished her tea and Ellen offered her another. She accepted, feeling that with nice tea and a blazing fire she had few reasons to leave. Tarrick had offered her a bed near the stables in one of the homes of the fallen men from the water purifier but she wasn't in any rush to get there. The pale woman intrigued her and as the second cup touched her lips she thought that, for a moment, she was beginning to see what Alan saw when he looked at people around him. Was it compassion? Or was it just a clear understanding of why people behaved the way they did that made him overlook their faults? Perhaps it was deeper than that. Perhaps it would take hundreds of years to fathom.
Suddenly the moment had passed and the delicious tea washed the feelings down to a place where she couldn't get them back from just yet.
“Tell me about the Slavers,” said Sarah, sitting back a little in her chair.
“There's not much to say really. We had farms further south just a little way in from the coast that provided a lot of our food and livestock. When the first one was hit, we sent out a token force of men to try and hunt them down, thinking they were only a handful of raiders or criminals, I'll let you decide what label you want to put on them.
“Then the next attack came, then another and each time the dead and wounded were found we started to see gang markings, tattoos. I guess you've noticed the red jackets?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“A bit of a sloppy job if you ask me, but it had the effect they wanted. They were taken seriously. Rumours began to go around that they had a leader and that a number of other settlements had fallen to their assaults as well. This time, there were fewer deaths and we noticed that they were going out of their way to capture as many as they could. When missing people began showing up at criminal labour markets, two and two got put together and the result was the broad designation of 'Slaver' for anyone found wearing the red jacket.”
“And no one has tried to stop them?”
“Tried, my dear. Tried and perished in the attempt. You see, these raids were fast and co-ordinated, not just the efforts of dumb mountain boys. They had equipment people hadn't seen before and when whispers of a vehicle began to be heard on the lips of travellers, Tarrick began to assume the worst. He called everyone back to Hope and reinforced the walls, digging in.”
“Why didn't he send for help?”
“Help?” she laughed. “From where? When the roads became unsafe we stopped getting news from the outside and we assumed the worst, that everywhere else had already fallen. Until you showed up we thought we might be the only place left that wasn't under their yoke.”
“They haven't reached Pine Lodge,” she replied. “Yet.”
“So you and your friend think that they can be stopped here?”
“If Alan thinks he can, then I believe him.”
“Is he your lover?”
Sarah felt her skin warm under her words. There was a wry smile playing across the ice woman's lips as she spoke them and those midnight-orbs bored into her soul, looking for the answer.
“Yes,” she managed to say. “He is.”
“He saved you from something,” said Ellen. “I can see it.”
“Yes.”
“And now you think you owe him your allegiance? Your bed?”
“No!” she cried, bristling at the accusation. “It's not like that!”
“What is it like then? Tell me?”
Sarah looked away from that intense gaze, resting her eyes on the fire. It was always the flame, she was always drawn to it like a moth. Still, she weighed her answer before offering it to her.
“He saved me,” she said. “But I'm saving him.”
“From what?”
“Himself.”
Ellen nodded slowly and sat back in her chair, cradling the tea in both hands. She was waiting for more, it was written on her sculpted face as if someone had carved it there for her to read.
“I love him. I love him in ways I can't begin to explain,” she said. “And he loves me. I know that now. But he's... special.”
“Special?”
“I cannot say. It's not my secret to give away. He is who he is and he knows that, but he doesn't see the darkness, the risks he's taking day after day and I know that deep down I can be the one to show him. He needs me, Ellen. He needs me and we need each other.
“People who know him call him 'the bear'. They see the angry, wild fury that he's capable of but they don't see the harm it's doing to him, the sleepless nights, the guilt, the regret. They don't see the price that he pays to help them.”
“But you do?”
“Because I've paid it myself. I know what he's going through and I'm the only one who's willing to take him on in spite of it all, in spite of all this suffering and hardship and...”
“And?” She shrugged.
“Loneliness. I was so lonely until he came along. He makes me laugh and smile again when I didn't think I could. I thought that died long ago. I thought I was turning to stone until he came into my life.”
“And now?”
“Now I feel alive. I feel like a real person. I feel like me. He did this to me. I can't let that kind of man walk out of my life. Never.”
Ellen smiled and it was the first time that Sarah had noticed any kind of depth of feeling in the expression and as she got up out of her chair she seemed to glide over to her. The next thing she knew, Ellen had wrapped her arms around her shoulders and was hugging her.
“Thank you,” she whispered into her ear.
“For what?” asked Sarah.
“For giving me hope again when I thought it was lost.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The following morning, Sarah found Tarrick overseeing the work being carried out on the walls. She saw him with his clipboard and a pencil, making scribbled marks on paper as his advisors orbited him, offering comments and suggestions as they walked along. It looked like they were strengthening the weaker areas, calling for logs and any scrap metal they could find to carry out the work. There were teams of people in dirty clothes with tool bags in their hands, eager to make a start but not without permission from their leader.
The sky was dark and overcast. It gave the whole place a dull, depressing kind of feel that Sarah picked up on straight away. She hadn't known a great deal of sunny days in her time. Her Papa had always said that, for an Englishman, that was perfectly normal and to have pale skin and a yearning for warmer places was just part of living in this country. Now, so much later in her life, she understood why.
“Sarah!” said Tarrick when he saw her walking towards the stables. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied. “I'm going to get some breakfast.”
“The pub is the best place for that. Do you know where it is?”
“I do. Ellen showed me.”
“You made your delivery then?” She nodded. “Good. She's a nice girl, that one. It's a shame about her father. We're sending a team to bring back the dead and give Annie the reinforcements later.”
“I might tag along, if that's okay,” she said. “I'd like to stay busy.”
“As long as you're handy with those guns, you're more than welcome to go. Be here around midday and I'll introduce you to the team leader.”
“Thanks. I'll do that.”
Sarah took a last look at the wall before walking away, wondering how long it could hold out for against the vast number of Slaver's who, one day, would be stood on the other side trying to get in. She felt a pang of worry in her gut and willed Alan to hurry back as soon as he could.
The pub reminded her of the same one back home and it bore a startling resemblance to it the moment she walked in. It was already quite busy, acting as both a public house that served alcohol and a kind of canteen for the workers and armed men that manned the walls day and night. The bar was the same kind of rough-hewn wood and she half-expected Sidney to be behind it, polishing a glass with a rag or chatting to a customer. Instead it wa
s an older woman in homespun clothing of dark brown with her auburn hair tied back in a bun. She watched Sarah enter and followed her with her eyes all the way to the bar.
“What can I get you?” she asked. Sarah looked at the bottles lined up behind her and indicated the clear vodka one. The landlord poured a generous amount into a white mug and put it down on the bar in front of her. “What have you got?”
Sarah put one of the little plastic figures on the bar and watched the reaction. The woman's eyes widened when she saw it and her jaw dropped open a little. She understood then why Ellen had insisted she take some of them off her hands; they had real value, if not to her then to the more superstitious people she'd encounter in the settlement.
“For that you can have the entire bottle and a meal. What would you like?”
“What's on offer?” The woman rattled off the menu and recommended the bacon and eggs with a fresh loaf of bread. Sarah accepted and went to sit down at a table while the woman stared at the little man, moving his arms with her rough fingers and smiling as he changed posture but never his plain, ordinary expression.
She took a seat that had her facing the entrance and drank some of the vodka. It caused a shudder to run down her spine but for a morning pick-me-up it did the trick. She had a couple more from the bottle before her food arrived with a glass of water.
“Rough night?” asked the barmaid.
“Courage,” said Sarah with a grin. “I don't think I want to tackle the day sober.”
“I can understand that. You're not from around here, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Kind of.” Sarah explained why she was there and when she mentioned Pine Lodge the barmaid's eyes lit up. “Seriously? You wouldn't happen to know Alfie Biggs would you?”
“The carpenter? Of course I do! Everybody knows Biggsy. But how do you know him?”
“He's my brother. I got a letter from him last year saying that he'd settled in a place called Pine Lodge. I haven't heard from him since so I assumed something happened. Was he okay the last time you saw him?”
“He's fine,” said Sarah. “He was working on Hooper's Farm helping to extend his barns. Fit and healthy with a wonderful wife and two children, both under five years old.”
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 21
