Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  Sarah and Daniel nodded again and, seemingly satisfied, the men handed them three frayed strips of green material. Wear ’em on your wrists, said one. The kid too. They let us know which district you’re from, and without ’em you can’t get your water. Understand?

  Which district was green? Daniel asked, fingering the material.

  Southwest, a guard replied. Still a mess, but they’d just have to find themselves some space until things were sorted. Might take some time. Understood?

  They were made to wait until another man hurried in to give all three of them a cursory examination: hair for lice, teeth for rot, eyes for jaundice, limbs for any sign of rickets or injuries or old scars, every fault noted down. Jeremiah struggled in Sarah’s arms when he was poked, and clamped down hard on the finger that was shoved into his mouth. Little shit, the man growled, noting that down too before he hurried out again.

  Then, with the telling done, the questions followed: Where had they come from, and who’d accompanied them? How many had they lost along the way, and what were the circumstances? How had they managed to survive, what had they eaten? What had they seen that might be of interest? How had they heard about the Citadel? Had they made their own way to the pass, or had someone brought them in? – when they mentioned Burns and the lieutenant, both men looked at each other (a little furtively, Sarah thought). Never heard of ’em, muttered one, but the other made a note of it anyway – What could either of them do that was of use? Did Daniel know anything about building, or mechanics, or any sort of trade, could he read or write, had they brought any books – their packs were opened, the contents checked – did Sarah know how to weave or sew or how to tan a hide, was she any kind of healer, had she ever herded goats before, what did she know about growing things? The interrogation dragged on, the search for information exhausting. Their reply to the last – had either of them killed anyone? – seemed to disappoint and, following a whispered discussion and a perusal of the list in front of them, the two men finally scribbled something on a couple of pieces of paper and handed one to each of them, along with terse instructions to take themselves over to that building where they’d be sorted out with identification numbers and told where to go. Then it was Rachel and Cutler’s turn.

  So it was that Cutler found himself helping to ransack what remained of the old town, dragging the spoils in through the gates to be sorted by others; Rachel’s skills saw her patching the wounded and tending to the sick; Daniel learned how to construct buildings from wood and rubble and old bent nails, his intellect wasted, only his muscles required, while Sarah joined a team of women who sifted mindlessly through mounds of material, sorting them by colour and thickness, unravelling threads and winding them onto sticks ready for reuse; when there was no material to collect and sort, they made use of plastic and stringy fibres stripped from flax until their fingers bled. Such medieval labour was rewarded with water, scant shelter, the security of the wall, and a vague guarantee of safety: the promise that others would defend so they might live. And suddenly they were back to square one, hunters and gatherers, except there was nothing to hunt and so little to gather.

  But any regrets or doubts they might have had were, if not dispelled, at least eased with the later news that filtered through in snatches and whispers and contradictory half-truths: the garrison had been breached – seized and overrun – they’d lost the pass – no, they’d regained it, but at a terrible cost. Remembering the lieutenant and Burns, the gauntlet and the bridge, those heavily armed scouts and the impregnability of the tunnel, Sarah found the rumours hard to believe. But she couldn’t help her selfish relief that they at least had made it through before the breach, that they’d finally found sanctuary, however primitive, and however harsh. Those who died were the ones who gave up, too exhausted to fight for their place. But Sarah and Daniel fought. They fought because they’d come too far not to. They fought for Jeremiah.

  Except it wasn’t the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

  Sarah turned slowly in the centre of the room, surveying it with quiet pride. As promised, the mess of the southwest district had been slowly sorted and they’d secured their own dwelling at last. Not one Daniel had worked on – a good thing, he’d joked – but a small room downstairs in the corner of a wooden building, with just a single hole in one wall and a door in another.

  No bigger than five square metres – Sarah had paced it out, twice – two corners were taken up by lumpy mats filled with sand, one for her and Daniel, a smaller one for Jeremiah; coverlets were badly stitched cloth and any old blankets they’d been able to buy; pillows were sacks stuffed with rags and plastic bags that rustled nightly beneath heads. There was a small hearth lined with bits of stone and mud set into one wall, a pointless luxury because Sarah knew they’d never light it; with the crosswind that blew in through the hole and out through the open door, the room already simmered. Daniel had tacked a square of cloth over the hole to keep out the afternoon sun and the worst of the dust. In front of the hearth stood the rough table and the three rougher chairs he’d made, all of them wobbling on uneven legs. But to the right of the window, suspended from the raftered ceiling, was his best work: a couple of little shelves that he’d nailed to a frame and covered with some hessian. Above it hung the container of seawater they refilled every few days, with its four thin hoses that dripped just enough moisture onto the cloth to keep any cheese and meat from going bad before it could be eaten. And in the corner, by the door, stood the barrel into which they emptied their rations of water each week; a single jug and three cups sat on the lid.

  Yes, she was proud of this place; proud of the odd assortment of pots and utensils and plates; proud of the mat that she’d found at market, which she’d spent an hour haggling over, wearing down the vendor until he was glad to agree to her offer of four cups if only to get rid of her; proud of Daniel’s improvements; proud of the broom she’d made herself with clumps of sedge that did nothing but shift old dust to make room for the next day’s coating; proud of the little lamps they’d battened to metal plates on the wall, so the flames might reflect more light. This was their new home, and it was wonderful. She could hear others around and above her, every creak, every footstep, every cough and sniffle and snort, every cry and every moan, but the noise didn’t disturb. It brought comfort. These were the sounds of others who’d survived just as they had.

  Jeremiah and Ethan sprouted in the dust, with the other children and the flies, fourth-world progeny, dirty and skinny and lucky to be alive. She’d been pleased for their continued friendship, just as she’d been happy for her own with Rachel. The two babies had become the boys she’d expected: Jeremiah stronger and more daring, Ethan cautious and gentle. Jeremiah never begrudged having to look out for his friend, to protect him from other, bigger children; the changed world ensured bullies abounded, and the two would often return from their play with Jeremiah bruised and Ethan in tears.

  Meanwhile, in the backdrop to their young trials, there grew an increasing order, even vision, as the Citadel spread outwards and upwards, gathering strength with the new outer wall and the raising, stone by heavy stone, of the great central tower. Laws, charters of rights and of wrongs, were written down and read out, all of them heard and understood if never actually seen. And now there were other places, settlements like the garrison – one high in the east, the other south and to the west – and there was talk of the new port, of boats going out to sea, past the old city to catch the rain; they were calling for builders, crew, anyone.

  It was dichotomous, Daniel was fond of saying. Juxtaposing. A fortress that offered ready safety while punishing any who dared disobey; a society that promised equality yet thrived on division; a governing body that overlooked differences of language and colour and culture, but overrode faith; a place where the most coveted commodity had become their only means of trade. It was as though they’d passed through a mirror into a reflection and were disappointed to discover that it wasn’t a reversal of what had be
en, but a copy, a strange exaggeration of all their worst faults. Nothing had changed, he said. People never changed.

  He’d greyed even more, his voice tired. That’s what survival did to a person, Sarah thought: it aged them. She was glad they had no mirror so she didn’t have to face her own reflection.

  But someone had to make the decisions, she reasoned every time Daniel voiced his doubts; someone had to plan ahead. Like they had with the books? And the water? The fuel? The taggings? All the rules, made by a council no one ever saw? All the punishments, carried out by guards everyone feared? Daniel would vary his reminders depending on that day’s concern, never quite sneering, though his contempt might be justified. Because he was right, and it seemed that every increasingly ambitious plan brought another increasingly oppressive law. And there was no arguing that the loss of books hadn’t been a terrible blow.

  When the order had been announced, urging people to find and surrender what books they had, or could find – and not just books; magazines, pamphlets, scraps of paper, anything that had been scribed and drawn upon – so a great library could be amassed, a collection of knowledge that could never be lost and from which they would all benefit, she’d thought it a fine idea. But once all those written words had been gathered and seized and stored in the tower – just as they’d taken any fuel and stored it at the new port – any promise of a library had vanished, the tower closed to everyone except its guards and the strange Keepers, and Sarah, like others, had soon realised her foolishness.

  But there’d been harsher realities to face than even the disappearance of books: the council had finally devised their better system for allocating water, and even Sarah had protested that. Not that it’d done anyone any good; the brand on her inner wrist was long healed, but every night she still pressed the tiny puckered scar at the back of her neck, feeling for the little disc she knew was there but never finding it, and she’d shiver, remembering her fear when the guards had strapped her down and those black-robed men had cut into her, and her anger when they’d done the same to Jeremiah. Because didn’t she understand, as well as Daniel did, how those men had learned just where to cut and how to safely insert the tag? And wasn’t she as aware as he that neither brand nor disc had anything to do with water?

  Just as hard to fathom were the rapid changes they kept making to the common laws, not an evolution as kinks were smoothed and better ways found, but a deterioration, a suppression of thought and belief and will. After everything she’d seen, Sarah had no love for any god, or for their followers, but the prohibition of every ancient symbol, the punishment of any who still dared to believe in the grace of the cross or the strength of the crescent or the deliverance of the star, had assumed its own zealousness. Even the worship of sand or sea, of mountain or dead tree, too-late reverence owed to an angry Earth, was discouraged. There was only the council, high in their tower, and all vengeance would be theirs. But it was hard to know which was worse: the reckoning of an afterlife, or the retribution in this one. Because it wasn’t faith that had killed, it was the abuse of it; it wasn’t knowledge that had driven the world to violence, it was ignorance.

  Still, things weren’t all bad. They were alive, Jeremiah was thriving and, most importantly, they weren’t still out there, nomads in a no-man’s land. So, no, she wasn’t prepared to lose hope, and she wasn’t ready to give in to Daniel’s growing despair. So she would force a smile, kiss his cheek and say: Give it time. It’s still early days. And, as she knew he would, he’d swallow his concerns and allow her every victory. Yes, he would echo. Still early days.

  But it wasn’t the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

  Sarah stroked Jeremiah’s hair. They should talk about it, she said, but he continued to stare up at the wooden ceiling, silent and still. Dust drifted from the cracks above to salt his face, making him blink, but he made no move to shield his eyes.

  She wished he hadn’t seen what had happened. If she could turn back the clock, she would. Why had he disappeared like that? she asked him. Why had he wriggled out of her grasp as she’d tried to pull him away? she asked herself.

  Another long silence, before he turned his head to stare at her. What had the man done, the one the guard killed? What had he done wrong?

  Sarah sighed and shook her head. She didn’t know. Maybe something bad. Most likely, she thought, nothing at all. Because it seemed there no longer needed to be a reason to grind another man into the ground, and everyone was afraid.

  No one helped him, Jeremiah accused.

  No, replied Sarah.

  I hate the guards, he said, and his small voice grew large with anger: I hate them!

  This from the boy who played at being a guard with his friends, using sticks for swords, banging and fighting and beating at one another, like all the boys did. Sarah thought that perhaps he might not play those games any more, and that wasn’t such a bad thing. She tried to make sense of it for him, explaining that not all the guards could be like that; there had to be some good ones.

  Like the ones who tagged us? he said, his voice low and even. But surely he was too young for sarcasm? Sarah didn’t know how to answer, and stroked his hair again.

  Would he like her to sing his song? she asked softly. Sing him to sleep? It had always worked before, a happy song to chase away any bad dreams. But Jeremiah rolled over, away from her. No, he said. Not any more.

  Because it wasn’t the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

  Sarah stared at her friend, aghast, uncertain what to say. Her mind raced, but her mouth couldn’t seem to utter any of the words; when it finally did, the ones it issued were the ones she’d hoped to stifle: Jeremiah will be devastated.

  Rachel nodded. I know, she said. Ethan too. But we think there’ll be better opportunities in the settlement. More choices for me. Easier for Cutler to establish himself. Then, glancing down, pressing a hand to the swell of her belly, she added: And I don’t want him to be born here. Not in this place.

  Him? Sarah said, almost smiling. You don’t know that.

  No, replied Rachel. But I hope it.

  Yes, Sarah thought. Didn’t everyone hope for a boy now? And didn’t Rachel understand about suffering, perhaps better than any of them? Her work with the sick and the dying and the injured and the mutilated was a thankless and bloody task and here, in this overcrowded place, a seemingly endless one. So yes, Sarah could understand her motivation. But it didn’t mean she had to agree with it.

  How could she be sure the settlement would be any better than the Citadel? she asked. Didn’t the same laws apply? Weren’t there still guards and restrictions and curfews and punishments? And what of the raiders? Most had been killed or driven off, but not all. A tiny settlement was no match for an army of savages; look what had happened to the garrison, she insisted, resorting to hearsay that she herself had not believed.

  Rachel smiled, a little sad. I’m sorry, she said. And Sarah was right. Maybe they were making a mistake, but there had to be something better than this. Somewhere.

  Where? Sarah wondered. Not in the settlements. Not in the port. Not anywhere, trapped as they were between mountain and sea.

  When? she asked, and quailed when Rachel gripped her hand.

  Tomorrow. They were sorry not to have told her before, but they’d thought it best not to upset anyone. Especially Ethan.

  Yes, she nodded, accepting the inevitable, not wanting to make this any more difficult than it was. And the sudden ache in her heart, which deepened and spread as cold as the sea, was at odds with the hot sting of tears. She’d miss her, she said. They all would.

  Standing quickly, Rachel hugged her and said: And I you. Thank you, Sarah. For everything.

  Except that was wrong too, because it was Sarah who should’ve been thanking Rachel. For her companionship, her loyalty, her support, for delivering Jeremiah and for keeping him alive. It was she who deserved praise.

  A last squeeze, and Sarah let her go. Rachel paused in the doorway: I’
ll let you tell Jeremiah. Maybe after we’re gone?

  Yes, Sarah replied. I’ll break his heart for you. I owe you that, at least.

  Jeremiah scowled and drew up his knees, hugging them. Sometimes the strength of his will delighted Sarah, other times it shocked her. She’d seen it before, this adamant refusal to acknowledge what he didn’t want to be made to understand, but this time was different. This time it wasn’t his view of the world that had been upset, but his feelings, rooted deep in the shared bond of a mother’s milk and the overcoming of terrible odds. Hadn’t he called Ethan his brother, on more than one occasion? Hadn’t the two of them shared adventures and trouble, rewards and punishments, praise and blame?

  She tried again. He’d see Ethan again. She was sure of it. This wasn’t the end, and meanwhile Jeremiah could make new friends, she said, brightly. Just like Ethan would.

  Jeremiah scowled deeper at that but still said nothing, and Sarah sighed. No, it wasn’t going well. Learning of betrayal never did.

  When she pressed his cheek, Jeremiah winced and jerked away. The skin was a little torn and already blueing, but she was relieved to feel the bone whole. She sponged his face with some boiled seawater and washed his split lip, lifting it to check his gums; one front tooth was gone, the other broken. But he’d been ready to lose them anyway. Hopefully he’d manage to keep his new ones for longer.

  When he spoke, the lisp was pronounced: Wathn’t my fault. Diethel made me. Sarah couldn’t help smiling, until she realised she shouldn’t. It was no laughing matter and, straight-faced, she told him what she must, that he shouldn’t blame others, that the decision to climb the wall had been his, and no one else’s.