Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  Instructions were brief and to the point: they’d walk single file, the ones with kids in the middle; anyone who couldn’t keep up would be left behind; no questions and no arguments, his word was law until they got to the Citadel. Did they understand? They all nodded. Then the lieutenant smiled again, and added, perhaps not as reassuringly as he might’ve supposed: Don’t worry, I haven’t failed anyone yet.

  Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, he turned back to Burns, suddenly serious.

  Keep her safe, he said, and make sure she gets everything she needs. Until I can return for her.

  Without hesitation, and just as serious, Burns replied: With my life.

  Make sure of it, the lieutenant said. It was a grim exchange, the pledge sealed with a grasp of hands, before the lieutenant marched off, leaving the rest of them to scurry behind, drifting into the disorganised single file he’d demanded, the two armed men following last of all.

  Sarah looked back, suddenly afraid and yearning for the strange safety the garrison offered. The woman had moved to stand beside Burns; he’d thrown an arm over her shoulders as though to comfort, and her hand was raised in salute, but the lieutenant didn’t turn to acknowledge their farewell before reaching the bend in the road and disappearing from sight.

  Burns was right; they did get there. Eventually. Though the way was harder than any of them had imagined, and the company unnervingly silent. When the lieutenant spoke, it was to his men – their exchanges brief and curt and restricted to the journey ahead – while the two groups kept their distance. Ridiculous, Sarah thought, considering their proximity. Perhaps their reticence to mix with each other, to find out where each had come from and how they’d made it, to swap any stories of hardship and woe, stemmed from disparate mateship, perhaps it was a result of trust having to be earned rather than given. Or perhaps, Sarah reasoned, they were simply adopting the mannerisms of their guides. But whatever the reason, aside from the odd muttering when they settled for a few hours’ rest, or gathered themselves again for the next leg, they learned little about the other three men. Not even Jeremiah and Ethan sparked anyone’s curiosity; the lieutenant and the two scouts showed absolutely no interest. Like Burns, on the approach to the pass, it was as though the children didn’t exist, more a hindrance than anything else. The only time their presence was acknowledged was if one of them cried; then the lieutenant would turn and scowl, his forehead furrowing, his eyes darkening further, and Daniel and Sarah and Rachel would hurry to hush any noise.

  Sarah never saw the lieutenant sleep; if he did, it was after she’d succumbed herself, and she’d later wake to find him crouched off to the side of the huddled bodies, always alert and ever watchful. He kept his face covered, as they all did, and it was hard to recall his handsomeness, or that smile; only his eyes were visible, and they were shadowed. Watching him in those quiet moments, as he spun one of his knives point-down on his palm – not a nervous habit, she sensed, but one to keep his hands as busy as his mind – she wondered what plagued his thoughts: the woman he’d left at the garrison, the Citadel ahead, or was he simply concerned with what lay between? Whatever it was, and however strangely he behaved, one thing had become clear: they’d never have got as far as they had without him.

  They’d soon left the road, not south towards the coast, as Sarah had hoped, but climbing east into the surrounding mountains, still following the trail of old bitumen that snaked below but keeping to the highest ground. Daniel had quietly questioned this decision to Sarah. Surely it would be safer down in the valley? he muttered, and she couldn’t help agreeing. Up here, knocked about by the wind and treading an unsteady path over rocks, relying on the hands of others to pull and to hold, often swaying at the very edge of a precipice, she felt exposed, in full view of anything, or anyone, that might’ve been waiting. But the lieutenant’s experience soon proved them wrong.

  It had been a particularly trying day. Jeremiah was fretful, not liking the heat and the wind, and Sarah couldn’t blame him. At one point one of the men from the other group had slipped, his foot turning on a rock, and he slid a few metres before a scout grabbed at him and hauled him back up; the skin of his leg was badly torn but the ankle was sound, and any hope for rest was thwarted when the lieutenant insisted they push on. After another few hours, the pace considerably slower and their leader’s impatience clearly growing, they found themselves following the slow descent of the ridge. Grateful for the downhill scramble into a shallow basin but disheartened by the height of the next climb, all were relieved when he called a sudden halt; motioning with his hand, he crouched low and the rest of them followed suit, more clumsily. Ignoring their grumbles, the lieutenant stared intently at the road. At least down there the ground would’ve been flat, Sarah thought morosely, as she tried to balance on spikes of pocked rock. Then she heard it: the deep echo of a chanting mob below, feet pounding the road like drums, raising an unmistakeable din and a cloud of dust. And, forgetting her earlier longing, Sarah felt only relief that they weren’t down there too, trapped between the walls of rock, with no escape.

  The lieutenant flashed his hands a few times to the scouts behind, signifying numbers, Sarah guessed, though she had no idea how he’d been able to estimate from such a distance, and the message was radioed back to the garrison: Get ready, company was coming. When he was sure the last of the mob had passed, the lieutenant rose again and, without a word, led the way up the incline. None of them dared protest.

  Later, after they’d eaten and drunk, and before they all settled on the hard ground, curled together for added warmth, Sarah watched him walk around to squat beside the injured man; she held her breath when he pulled his knife, remembering his warning about not keeping up – even the man flinched – but the lieutenant just smiled, slit the trouser leg, cleaned the wound with some of his own water, and bandaged it roughly with strips of material. Then, shrugging off any thanks with a quick nod, he returned to his usual place away from the rest of them, and his usual practice of keeping watch.

  With Jeremiah tucked against her chest, and Daniel at her back, Sarah slept well that night.

  They traversed the mountains’ roots for seven days before Sarah began to notice any change in their surroundings, slight at first, more obvious the further they walked: the sun rising more northerly, each ridge less steep than the one before it, and every ravine less deep. They’d changed direction. But there was little cause to celebrate; indeed, when they climbed the last hill and stood for a moment above a steep drop to survey the flatlands below, Sarah wanted to weep. It seemed that they’d made it through that monotonous grey moonscape of rock only to stumble into worse: the dead black of a barren world, scorched earth stretching on and on, an endless carpet of crisp soot and charcoal. And no sign of any Citadel.

  Despite everyone’s best efforts, the food packages were running low and, although everyone welcomed the added chance to rest, another morning was wasted while the lieutenant and his cross-bowed scout sought to replenish supplies, returning with a clutch of lizards, two snakes, and three hawks; a feast, thought Sarah, if only they’d been able to cook the meat. No fires, replied the lieutenant, when they asked. The raw meat didn’t diminish anyone’s appetite.

  They pressed on, descending the cliff like a string of goats before venturing out onto the plain, caterpillaring their way over cinders, and already Sarah missed the rugged hills that continued their line further east before curving south, rock that had bruised bone and cut skin with every handhold, but had offered some protection too. On the plain, the ruined ground squeaked as they walked, protesting their intrusion, and the wind stirred black ash fine enough to sting eyes and filter through face coverings to clog noses and slime teeth and tongues. But worst of all was the heat, relentless, the dark earth absorbing sun and air so it felt as though they were stepping on fire, roasting slowly from below while, above, the sky shimmered and teased with the promise of moisture, its thick haze making it impossible to judge any distance.

  Th
ere was no knowing when the fires had passed through, how old the destruction, but one thing was clear: the inferno had spared little. Mounds of tree stumps glittered like clumps of black diamonds; any structures – buildings and barns and fences – stuck askew from the earth like dark stiff-limbed carcasses, too slowly buried beneath the ever-shifting soot. And there was no sign of the road they’d followed through the mountains – had it disappeared, too awash with ash for them to see, or had they simply left it behind to wind its way east without them?

  Without a road to watch, the lieutenant began watching other things, every now and then stopping to brush at the ground, checking the direction of footprints – whether they were the trudge of many feet, or the steps of one. Depending on what he found he’d alter their course, tacking west or east without explanation or discussion, the group forced to follow, silently trusting. For two days they suffered that wasteland before he suddenly made them walk at night, with black sky meeting black earth and not even a sliver of moon to see by.

  Why now? Daniel asked.

  Coz here’s where it starts to get interesting, was his answer. When Jeremiah laughed suddenly, the lieutenant stared at him for a moment before nodding. Reckon he knows what I mean, he said, and his eyes smiled.

  Interesting was a fallacy. There was nothing interesting about the stop-start of their progress, one minute walking, the next being pushed to the ground to swallow grit and ash until the lieutenant gave the all-clear and they moved on, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, before having to drop again. There was nothing compelling about the glowing fires they could see, some distant, others closer, bright little beacons dotting the darkness that did nothing to warm their hearts as they picked a careful path between and around them, skirting the light and the noise; Sarah couldn’t help wondering what those people had found to burn. Or why.

  And there was nothing fascinating about the lieutenant’s sudden change of demeanour, his new grimness, his icy determination, or the stealth with which he carved a trail when no alternative presented itself. That he could be sure he was cutting down foe rather than friend didn’t appear to be a concern; hadn’t Burns already explained that they were choosy about who they let in? The first time it happened, guarded only by the scout with the rifle, Sarah had huddled into Daniel, Jeremiah between them, and blocked her ears to muffle sounds that seemed to drift too easily on the night air: grunts and gurgles, a quickly stifled scream, and the sickly squelch of metal cleaving flesh. Then nothing but quiet shadowy movements as the lieutenant and the other scout rifled the dead, before the fire was stamped out and everyone resumed their trudging. Sarah soon stopped counting dead fires.

  Daniel was more concerned with the hundreds still lit. Is it a siege? he asked; finally a question to warrant an explanation.

  No, the fuckers were all just waiting for a chance to get in, the lieutenant told them. Wouldn’t happen though; they’d all wipe each other out eventually. There was a pause, and another smile as he nodded to the bodies he’d heaped on a still-smoking fire, and added: Course, we’re always happy to hurry things along when we can.

  But they had to admit that his skill in getting them across the plain virtually unseen was commendable. Nothing escaped his notice, and when he wasn’t scouting the ground he was looking ahead, or around, or up at the sky, reading signals the rest of them couldn’t see. Without the aid of the moon, and with little guidance from the faint stars, he seemed to know instinctively their direction; no matter how many times they were forced to change it, he always brought them around again to continue south. He knew how to shelter them in the open and under the sun, in deep hollows, covering them with their cloaks and a layer of dirt and soot, while he and his men lay prone around them, each facing a different direction and taking turns to rest. Only once were the three forced to defend their position, and then it was the scout with the rifle who took honours, picking off the unwary intruders, any noise from his gun disguised by the wind, while the group cowered in their graves; just as he had done in the tunnel, the lieutenant’s sudden laugh signaling when the danger was over.

  He roused them earlier than usual on the last evening; the sun was still to sink below the horizon and they crawled from their hideouts, shaking off their sandy second skins, spitting and blowing grit from mouths and nostrils, a little bewildered by their unexpected exposure. The lieutenant shrugged and reassured them it was safe enough; he thought they might want to get a look at where they were headed.

  Turning to follow his gaze, seeing the uneven rise of what looked like a wall, columns of smoke rising behind and in front, and partly obscured by clouds of dust that could only have been stirred by mobs, they fought to swallow their disappointment. No yellow brick road and no fabled emerald city, Sarah thought, bitterly. No magic cure for all the ills they’d suffered. No waking from this nightmare. And no wonder none of their questions had been answered.

  That’s it? Cutler was the first to voice what all were thinking.

  That was it, the lieutenant replied, before laughing. What had they expected? The fucking Promised Land?

  They parted ways at the end of a long tunnel, the lieutenant giving them no chance to thank him or his men, simply handing them into the care of another who bustled them up a set of iron steps and out into the open air of the Citadel. Sarah had turned once, at the foot of the ladder, expecting to see him still standing there, watching over them to the very last, but he’d already disappeared, perhaps returning the same way he’d come, to reclaim his woman.

  In the weeks and months that followed, whenever she saw a lithe figure striding the wall or return, laughing, from another skirmish; when she tried, and failed, to set those perfect features to other faces in a crowd, she would wonder what had become of him. But after the first wall had been secured and work on the second began, when the raids finally subsided, the mobs self-destructing as he’d predicted, the rest slaughtered or driven off, and the young lieutenant’s fate remained unknown, she stopped wondering and any thought of him slipped through the cracks of her memory and was gone.

  5

  When I woke, the sun was past its midpoint and Alex still slept, wrapped and over-bundled and probably melting slowly in the heat. My position against the rock gave some shade, but he – no, she – lay in the open, exposed to the worst of the sun. Idiot. Still, there were plenty of things she was going to learn over the next few days. I figured that was the least of them.

  There was no need to worry about disturbing her, the wind so much louder than I was, seizing any sounds, lifting them with the dust and blowing them away. I checked the jar and was relieved to see she’d not disturbed the tube. Tipping the contents into a gourd, I managed to refill the pot before capping it again with the funnel and leaving the sun to do its work.

  Back at the rock, I ate and drank and, still keeping an eye on Alex, unstrapped the bow to wipe sweat and grit from the raised welt on my arm. My first tag. And it would’ve sufficed too if others hadn’t messed with theirs, cutting them out, or scoring them and obliterating the code, outraged they’d been branded like animals. That’s when the Tower had come up with the new tags, the discs no one could mess with. It had taken them a while to get it right, experimenting on the already-condemned, but now we all had them, just a little scar at the back of our necks the only thing to show for it. C5M81235: Citadel, Year 5, Male, and a sequence. That was me. Numbered, just like the stars. Course, everyone was still branded so they could claim their water, but it wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe it was done just to keep the Guards happy.

  And that brought me back to the problem of Alex. I watched her sleep and considered the best course of action. Why was she here? And why the disguise? Why pretend to be a boy, when everyone knew the Guard took on a few women? Was it fear of me, or something else? I remembered the look of concern on Cade’s face as he’d watched her leave. You know what to do. What? What did she know?

  Still wondering, I dug the staff into the ground and draped my
cloak over it, making a tent of sorts, before removing my vest and knives and the new shirt, which was already dirty and stained. Using the small vial of seawater I’d collected at the shore, I washed my chest, dabbing at the new marks, freeing any matted hair and wincing at the sting. They’d been rubbed raw and were seeping, but the fluid was clear enough. The problem was the jagged skin around the edges, catching on my shirt and tearing further under the straps of the pack. Flicking open a small knife, I began slicing away the worst of it, smoothing then cleansing.

  ‘So the stories are true,’ Alex said, and I looked up to see her watching me.

  I grunted and kept working. Finally satisfied they’d no longer be a problem, I closed my eyes and settled back against the warm rock to let the wounds dry, keeping one hand cocked to brush away the flies, and ignoring the girl opposite. My head ached, the heat making it worse. The bruise had swollen to a lump, still pulpy, and in a day or so I wouldn’t feel it, but now it throbbed, and I cursed Garrick.

  ‘How many?’ Alex asked, not taking the hint.

  When I didn’t reply, she asked again, a little louder, thinking maybe I hadn’t heard her the first time. And it was there, in her voice raised above the wind: that higher note she’d been able to disguise the night before when all had been still and quiet. But there was something else that gave her away too, something no new Guard would express if he saw the marks, coz don’t all men dream of killing? Disgust. And I smiled to myself, reassured that she wasn’t quite as good as she thought she was. That she was new to this.

  ‘How many marks do you have?’ She could’ve counted, but perhaps she didn’t know how. So many didn’t.

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ I said.

  She kept on. ‘Do they hurt?’

  Not as much as my head, so shut the fuck up.

  ‘Did it hurt when they made them?’