Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  ‘In a way, yes. But it’s not just me. This movement is bigger than you think. Much, much bigger. And it’s been building for a long time. I’m offering you a chance to join us.’

  I stared, not quite believing his stupidity. ‘Join you? Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

  He leaned down, his face too close to mine. ‘Because there’s the small matter of those twenty-three girls you gave to Garrick. And then there’s that other matter too, Jem. The one that’s not so small. The one you don’t like to think about. Your first assignment, that left you feeling dead inside. Are you ready to talk about that now, Jeremiah? D’you want me to listen while you tell me why you did it?’

  ‘No,’ I muttered, shrinking back into the cot, suddenly cold. Never.

  Again I turned my face to the wall, and this time he let me be. The door opened, and his voice needled me: ‘Think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more.’

  I waited for the shot of the bolt before I tried to cry, and couldn’t.

  The Book of Covenants (Orig.)

  The Common Law

  … that every man, woman and child, knowing again neither hunger nor thirst, shall be free to claim sanctuary without fear of prejudice, persecution, religious indoctrination or factional strife.

  Queuing outside the shed, a group at a time so production wasn’t halted completely, they sweltered under the sun. Glancing up, Sarah guessed it was mid-morning; quartersun, they called it now, though she supposed a more accurate record was still being kept by those in charge. As they kept everything else.

  It was payday and Sarah clutched her plate and her skins, queuing with the rest of the women for the water she’d earned. And, oh, how she’d earned it! The tight wrappings on her fingers might protect from cuts and blisters, but each felt swollen and bruised; the daily gathering and rolling of flax, goat, camel hair and other threads into a manageable string that could be spun on wheels and woven into cloth was taking its toll. Today though, those bandages were as black as the rest of her hands, the skin dyed as effectively as the squares of new material she’d had to soak in tubs of inky water before squeezing them out and hanging them to dry. Tomorrow they’d be cut and sewn, the three red-corded fastenings attached, before being checked for any mistakes, packed into carriers and taken to the tower. Glancing at the guards ahead, she wondered whether their dark cloaks had been her work or someone else’s. Not that it mattered, and not that they would care. The cords weren’t always red; sometimes they sewed green, or yellow, or blue, or what passed for white, a different colour for each settlement, and each regiment, though Sarah had no knowledge of which was used where; except for the odd trip to the shore with Jeremiah and Daniel, she hadn’t left the Citadel since arriving; all she knew was red.

  The queue moved fairly quickly. After all, the cross-checking of numbers against days worked and the filling of skins with water wasn’t exactly an onerous task. In a few days, Daniel would himself queue to collect his weekly wage and, once he started working properly, so would Jeremiah, falling into line like the rest. A few of the women carried babies in slings, or held the hands of restless toddlers; once, Sarah had done the same, taking her grandson to work with her, sitting him at her feet upon a cushiony mess of old cotton and old wool and old polyester. But now he collected his own half-vat and waited for the chance to earn more.

  Only two ahead of her now – old Mary, and the girl, Holly – and Sarah could hear the splash and trickle of the water; the sound never failed to excite her and her mouth dried suddenly, longing for the new wet. Her foot stung; the hole in her old sandal had split further and sand had got in, rubbing the sweaty skin; she didn’t need to inspect it to know it was raw and blistered. Later at the market, she’d look for another pair of sandals, or even boots, something a little sturdier; the thought gave her strength to shuffle forwards, halting again when Holly held out her arm and showed her plate to the guards. Her entitlement was poured into one skin, then another jug of water was scooped up ready to fill the second.

  Wait! said the first guard, checking the list he’d been given. Only two cups more for this one.

  No, four! Holly retorted. It should be four. Four for a day. She knew her rights.

  The guard consulted the list again. A full day? When was that? he asked.

  That confused Holly momentarily; she probably couldn’t count past four, a sufficient number for bartering, but no use for anything else.

  Sarah spoke for her: five days ago. She was here all day. I saw her. So did everyone else.

  You her supervisor? the Guard asked. When Sarah shook her head, he said: Then stay the fuck out of it.

  Holly pleaded, her tone wheedling. Her daughter was sick, that’s why she’d been absent, but she needed the water. Please?

  Shit, let her take it, said the second guard. He was young and thin and clearly new to the job. Had he not been, he never would have spoken up.

  The first turned to him: If it said two cups, she’d get two cups. The lists had to match.

  They had plenty, and how would they even know? the second replied. How indeed? thought Sarah. How did the tower know all that it did? And of course there was plenty in that cart, more than enough to help Holly, more than enough to spare for all of them.

  I don’t know how they know, they just fuckin’ know, said the first guard. Then, glaring at Holly, he said: You wanna argue, go see your supervisor. Reckon a pretty little thing like you should be able to work somethin’ out. Otherwise, it’s two cups or it’s nothing. Take your pick.

  The girl finally nodded, and the young guard exchanged jug for cup and measured out the water. Once, twice, before returning the skin with a small shrug, as though apologising. He’d learn.

  Later, finding Holly at one of the looms, Sarah quickly knelt and emptied half of one of her own skins into the girl’s; Holly’s protests became thanks, then offers to repay, but Sarah waved them off and limped back to the tubs. A sore foot wasn’t as important as a sick child; she could wait another week or two for new shoes. Nor was she worried about Daniel’s reaction when she returned with less water than expected. He would have done exactly the same thing.

  She watched Jeremiah turn the device in his hand and press the small button at its base before smoothing the scratched glass face. Once her fingers had danced across that glass; now they knotted threads upon a wooden loom.

  It was one of those phone things, wasn’t it? he said. Mitch had one the same.

  Yes, Sarah said, and already she knew the gift was a mistake. Of course he knew what it was. There were hundreds of them to be found, in the market place, hanging from doors, around people’s necks, trinkets and spoils of the world that was, and many of them more fun than this now-not-smart phone with its flat, featureless façade. The popular ones, she knew, had flip covers and keypads that could be seen and pressed. But she’d kept hers for a reason, perhaps for this very reason. Because this was a special phone, she told Jeremiah. Not like the one Mitch had. Not like any phone anyone else had. This one had pictures inside it. Pictures of your mother, she said, when she’d been a baby, just born.

  Jeremiah looked surprised by that, and she watched him puzzle over the device, turning it around, gripping its thin sides, trying to pry them apart. She smiled. No, not like that. He couldn’t see the pictures. Not now. Not yet. But perhaps one day, if they ever worked out how to make electricity again, then he could turn the phone on and see them. It was unlikely, she knew; the battery’s life would’ve long expired and it would now be rotting inside its plastic, solder-lined coffin. But it was a dream she’d clung to for years and – though Jeremiah’s surprise had already dulled to disappointment – one she wasn’t ready to relinquish. She showed him the charger with its plug. Keep them together and keep them safe, she said. They were his now and he had to look after them. He nodded glumly, not thrilled with this new responsibility for such a useless thing. Could she blame him? When she added that there was something else too, a le
tter she’d written, a sort-of birthday letter, her smile was falsely bright. It wasn’t really his birthday. They’d lost track of the years, but she and Daniel had decided that it was as good a day as any to celebrate, and perhaps he was turning ten. Or eleven. Either was better than not at all.

  There’d been no question. As soon as Jeremiah was old enough they’d begun to teach him to read and to write, using the two tattered picture books Daniel found stuffed inside a collapsed wall and had smuggled home. But the boy was clever and eager, much quicker to learn than his mother had been, and he’d soon outgrown them. Without any more books, they’d made do, writing out lists of words and phrases for their grandson, with all their meanings. It had been a slow process at first, as they adjusted to using quills and the sticky squid ink, scratching the letters onto anything they could find. Sometimes they dipped the small paintbrushes that Sarah had bought at the markets into a thin paste of mud, or ash and seawater, and daubed the walls of their small room like mad scientists, scribbling literary equations before the water dried and the dirt fell away; other times they would sit outside and write directly to the earth.

  The adjustment hadn’t been one-sided though, and there were times when Jeremiah too had struggled; the cat sat on the mat resulted in a long talk about pets and animals he’d never seen; it never rains but it pours had confused him horribly, and they’d spent a whole day walking to the shore and back so that he might better understand. But as his knowledge had grown, so had his ennui. Desperate for new material, not wanting him to give up, so certain that even in this new fourth world there were skills that would set men apart, Sarah had hit upon the letters.

  If he liked it she’d write more, she told him. He unfolded the page and began to read her words. When he’d finished and glanced up, his smile was warm, as his mother’s had always been.

  Yes? Sarah asked him; Yes, he said, and hugged her. Thanks, Gam.

  Then he stuffed the letter into a pocket and went out to join his friends. But he left the useless phone with its useless charger lying on the table. Glancing at Daniel and seeing his shrug, Sarah was forced to admit, grudgingly because she hated the idea, that perhaps he’d been right after all; perhaps a knife would’ve been better.

  7

  My first steps were no better than a baby’s, unsteady scuffs scraping the dirt, my body lurching side to side, with only Tate’s hands to steady me. The rope tethering my ankles didn’t help, nor the one binding my hands, but there was no need for either because I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry; every step I managed just hammered the pain further into my head. We didn’t leave the room. Instead we traced the path that Ballard had made, the turns the worst as I tried to keep my balance. Four lengths of the tiny room, nineteen short steps, and I was exhausted, happy to let Tate lower me back onto the cot, not even pretending to struggle as he secured my feet in place. Plonking himself on the edge, tilting the bed alarmingly, he began rubbing my arms, bending them up and down and side to side, stretching my shoulders, ignoring any protests. He was surprisingly gentle, but he never spoke and I was too tired to care. Then, as before, he strapped me down, and I slept.

  Alex arrived later with another bowl of slops, my second for the day, this time with some shredded meat stirred into it. No tastier than before, and still watery, it kept my stomach settled. She didn’t speak either, as she fed me, and I didn’t goad her this time. I’d already used my only advantage and once said there was nothing more to add. But I was betting she hadn’t forgotten my words. In fact, I was counting on it.

  She kept her gaze on the spoon, and I studied her as I chewed and swallowed; clear bright eyes scored by long straight brows, a high forehead beneath a cropped cap of hair, darker than her brother’s, hollowed cheeks sloping from prominent bones, a straight nose, just flaring at the nostrils above a wide mouth and strong chin; an undulating landscape of skin and bone and flesh, pale and soft. Her neck was long and slender and I imagined my hands around it, thumbs pressing into the hard, ridged windpipe, crushing it slowly, choking off the air and turning that pale face red as she gasped like a fish.

  All in all, it was a pretty satisfying meal.

  So the pattern of days was set, Alex building my energy with increasing portions of gruel, adding more meat and fish and bread to the menu, cleaning me off afterwards, making me comfortable before Tate began his gentle torture, slowly extending the time I spent on my feet. With each meal and every walk, I regained my strength, the pain in my head receded and my muscles ceased their protest. And in between, regular as the sun and just as unbearable, Ballard would appear for one of his little chats, sharing his vision, ready to answer every question and parry every disparagement.

  But I was also aware of time slipping away, any chance to carry out my duties becoming less and less likely. Failure, and its subsequent punishment, which I’d so far escaped, seemed inevitable, and my frustration grew.

  ‘How am I supposed to help you when I’m dead?’ I asked him on one occasion.

  ‘Start with the whys, and leave the hows for later,’ he suggested. His superior air annoyed me. Just one of a long, long list.

  ‘No problem. Why are you such a prick?’

  He gave a small frown. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind. Let’s begin with why we want to bring down the Tower.’

  ‘I think I’ve got that bit.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you do. The Tower was built to protect. Keep everything – and everyone – safe. But no one is safe, Jem. And we don’t want to be ruled by fear any more.’

  Yet fear was all we knew. Fear of thirst, starvation, of each other. Fear of the dark, and fear of the sun. Fear might be a hard taskmaster, but it was what ensured our survival. Ballard’s dream was the same one every Diss had, and nothing I hadn’t heard before.

  ‘Are you really that stupid?’ I asked him. ‘You get rid of the Tower and the Council and everything else, something’s gotta take their place. The king is dead, and all that.’

  ‘That’s not our intent,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re just gunna do away with it all and hope for the best? No Guard, no Watch? No authority of any kind? Great idea, Ballard. You’re giving me fucking goosebumps.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, either. But I have faith in people, Jem. You don’t. Yet,’ he added, with a small smile.

  ‘No. I don’t any more. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Then you need to find it again,’ he said, making it sound as easy as if I’d lost a boot.

  ‘Well, in a few weeks I’ll be dead, so it won’t much matter. There’s your faith.’

  ‘That’s not faith, Jem, that’s surrender.’ He cocked his head. ‘Does it scare you? The idea of dying?’

  ‘Not so much,’ I said, and then smiled. ‘But failing is really gunna piss me off.’

  ‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘Because you will fail at some point. You will die. It’s just a question of how you face up to it, isn’t it?’

  I thought of Garrick’s knives and chains and whips, and all his cruelty. There were easier ways to go, but when all was said and done, knowing how it’d happen lent its own brand of courage. Or stupidity.

  ‘Why don’t you stick me with that knife of yours, and we’ll both find out,’ I suggested, laughing when he frowned again. ‘A man only fears death when he has something to lose, Ballard.’

  ‘Perhaps, my friend. But I thought we’d already established that you’re not yet a man.’

  ‘I’m not your friend either, arsehole,’ I retorted. ‘But either way, it makes no difference. If you don’t fear death, you can’t be controlled.’

  This time, he was the one to laugh. ‘But you are controlled. Every minute. By the Tower, the Council, by Garrick, by your orders. By your guilt. So if it’s not death you fear, then it must be something else.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that then?’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t do everything, Jem. You’ll need to work it out for yourself.’

  And so it went. Sometimes he became alm
ost animated as he shared his dream, other times he remained reserved and serious, his voice low and quiet. He never gave away any of the details, few of the hows or whens or wheres. Just the whys. He was obsessed with those. But he wasn’t stupid. Not by a long shot, and I found myself wondering why a man so intelligent would devote himself to such a useless fucking cause.

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ I asked him. ‘Assuming you’re successful?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Freedom, of course. Isn’t that what everyone wants?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I said. ‘Reckon there’s a shitload of freedom over those mountains. Why don’t you go and see how it’s working out for them.’

  It took a minute for him to force a smile. ‘A person can be free and still be ruled by his conscience, Jem.’

  ‘Well, see, that’s your first mistake,’ I said. ‘Thinking everyone has a conscience.’

  ‘Not everyone. Not people like Garrick. Or the Council. Sadly, maybe not even you. But the rest? Yes, I do believe it. And a free man isn’t a lawless one.’

  ‘Except who’s going to make those laws, Ballard? Who’s going to enforce them? There won’t be any Guard, remember?’

  He pressed his fingertips together, all serious again. ‘Rebellions are the hallmark of evolution, Jem. Change and growth. That’s our history. And hindsight’s invaluable if we take the time to learn from it.’

  I jerked at the straps. ‘I reckon foresight’d be a shitload more useful.’

  ‘True. But none of us have that, do we? The only thing we have is time and patience, and a willingness to learn from our mistakes.’ He sighed. ‘The Tower isn’t untouchable, Jem. Its own arrogance has allowed us to get this far.’