Blood, Ink & Fire
Page 34
On the eve of the great dispersal, the Nine of the Rising gather. These are the final words of Prospero, our illustrious leader.
*
Fellow Risers, quickly gather round. There is little time for us now.
We have done well to get this far, but there is one more thing we must do before we disperse. Yes, please, gather in closer. It is very cold tonight. Don’t worry about the fire. It is for warmth only, and we will keep it small. Yes, the books are far from us. They are safe now.
Okay. Let us begin. Lady M, stop texting, please. This will only take a minute or two. Thank you. Now, let us begin.
First, I would like to recognize the feat of the day, which might be the biggest success to date. Through our final act of extreme conservation, we have recovered a copy of the First Folio of Shakespeare from the Huntington.
[Let the record reflect that Prospero has held up the First Folio of Shakespeare. Strike that. A representation of the folio, on cardboard.]
The First Folio is now safe, as are all the other articles we were able to salvage. You all have worked hard and earned your respite, but first let us acknowledge our losses.
You will note that we are fewer by two around the fire tonight. Our loving Macbeth has given his life for the cause. Indeed, Ganymede was there when he died, and I regret that despite medical attention from Titus, we were unable to save him. Let us thank dear Ganymede, who in trying to save Macbeth sustained numerous foul and cruel tortures to her body and soul. We are grateful to Lady M and Goodfellow for their efforts in saving her. We pray she will recover quickly, and we thank her for her sacrifice.
Most of you who were inside the building will remember the fury of Fell’s new weapons, the electric bullets that with some strange chemical sear the flesh from the inside, making any attempt at salvation impossible. These new developments are to be feared, Risers, for mark me, they will be used to extinguish any of us that remain.
There are some thank-yous in order.
I would like to thank Capulet once again for furnishing us with funds for purchasing the necessary arms. To Holofernes, who is ever the perfectionist in tracking Fell Corps’ movements. You managed to keep us all safe for twelve minutes this time, a record, and a wonderful feat of coding genius. To Goodfellow and Lady M, your stealth and coordinated attack on the local security was really quite spellbinding. You managed to deter them without sacrificing a single life. We thank you for your service in protecting us. And Cordelia, I am sorry for the wound to your face caused by the tear gas canister. Titus is looking after it, you say? Good.
To Lady M, what a fearsome role you undertook in making the Fell officer your fool. I had no idea the inspiration for your name would come in handy thus. You say you posted to your followers before the attack? “Dashing out the brains of Fell” is bold indeed. Bravo!
[Let the record show that Prospero has applauded, and the others have joined in.]
To our brave surgeon, Titus, for stitching up my leg so beautifully after it was gashed open on the barbed wire. You’re right. I should not have gone after the Gutenberg, but you must understand it pains me even now to think of it roasted upon the pavement as it was. The image sears in my memory. Nevertheless, thank you for treating me and all our wounded these many months. Bless you.
To our dear Hamlet. For your loyalty that knows no bounds . . . [Let the record reflect that Prospero has turned from the fire.] It needs no other words.
And last, to our faithful record keeper, Amanuensis, who leaves out no detail and records every trial we face so that forever may our deeds be remembered. Thank you. And thanks to all of you. I, Prospero, have been honored to be your leader.
[Let the record reflect a great many hugs, kisses, and handshakes have been exchanged around the fire.]
It is time for the oath now. Please don’t post that, Lady M. Yes, this part shall remain private. You can tell your followers I said as much.
Please hold up your hands. We shall now take the oath.
We, the Nine of the Rising, the champions of page and ink, fighters for the printed word, we who bear the burden of our roles upon this earthly stage, insofar as we are humans with souls and a beating consciousness, do hereby solemnly swear to protect the nine volumes, to safeguard each page and binding, to use the words within the quires carefully, to know and respect their powers, to cherish the now-forbidden knowledge of their contents, to guard their secrets with immeasurable fortitude.
For the secrets they contain do not belong to us anymore. The thing which they guard is not for us to keep. It belongs to the future. To our children, who do not yet walk this Earth. To the unfettered generations who will never hear stories of our most unfortunate time, who will one day take for granted all we have done to preserve our history. And to the hope that one day what we have lost may indeed be recovered. Because for that thing which we have lost—temporarily lost—we have built a monument in its dedication. A church for the printed word. The Archive.
[Let the record reflect that the Risers have united in a cheer.]
I thank you, Risers. In this church for the printed word, may the story itself long survive. May the books—yes, I shall say the word even at the dawn of these fearful times—may the books outlive us all. May they rest in a chambered sleep only to be reawakened in a new era with a tender kiss . . .
No, I don’t mean to parallel it with the lore of fairy tales. I merely wish to highlight the nature of stories themselves throughout history to share with us the same space, our human space. Yes, the books themselves are like the body of the princess. The reader is the prince. There’s simile and metaphor in two sentences. Are we finished on this digression? Thank you.
The books will survive, as will our species. For we—the nine who have survived against better odds—have lived on in spite of the horror of our age. We, who have ensured our own escape from the narrow funnel of obliteration, have plucked each page from destruction.
History will know our cause.
Humanity will recognize our efforts.
For our sharp turn from the cliff of destruction is as swift and sure as if we’d prevented the war itself.
Now, we will carve a rut in the long road of time. It is a metaphor, Lady M, for the thing we must do now. No, I’m sure you won’t like it one bit. Remember your character. She would not fear this next part.
[Let the record reflect that Lady M has given Prospero the knife of Macbeth.]
Thank you, Lady M, I’m sure it will be sharp enough. Now let us fill the ruts of history with our blood . . .
[Let the record reflect that Prospero has drawn the knife of Macbeth across her palm in order to cause blood to flow from her own hand.]
We hereby vow to procreate and extend our lineages. We promise to unite with another, to breed, to produce a suitable heir each, one who we will love and nurture and, above all, teach the ways of the Rising. We promise that they will learn to uphold our values, embody our spirit, and that one day, when our time upon the Earth has expired, they will take up our places, inherit the volumes and know their duties. The descendants born of our lineages will ensure the protection of the Archive, the survival of the book itself.
They will become the new Risers—the new hopes—and so it will be on and on, from mother to son, from father to daughter, through the generations, without fail, until the one known as “the reader” arrives.
I have often mentioned the reader, the one of my dreams. I know some of you do not believe me, or think I’ve taken too many Fellmaceuticals. But I have seen this reader many times. She is like a prophet, born of the stars, cloaked by great forces beyond our comprehension. The reader will arrive many years from now when our bodies have deteriorated and been laid to everlasting rest.
Let us pause a moment to reflect upon one simple fact: Fell did not succeed in bringing about our demise. Despite the death of our many treasured books, the excision of reading from our minds, nay, from humanity, we are still here because we are the chosen ones.
Now, we draw our blood in service of our oath, to make our vows and cement our duty. We purge ourselves of selfish desires as we commit our lives in service of the volumes placed in our care. There may be eight of us now, but the original Nine of the Rising we shall always be.
We, the Risers, do so solemnly swear to protect our nine volumes as we do the very flesh of our bodies. For their bodies are our bodies. Their spines, our spines. Their pages, our flesh. Their stories, our souls, which will now live on from generation to generation until the coming of the reader.
We vow to never speak of their secrets. To guard them and in so doing, keep the location of the Archive safe. May its whereabouts never be known until the coming of the reader, who will know the words and will use them to free us from the oppression of a world without them.
From the ashes of our burned books, we bring forth new life. Now each of you, take a handful of ash from the edges of the fire.
[Let the record reflect that each Riser has reached toward the fire to gather ashes.]
And as the ashes of the books do sear your flesh—yes, that’s right, it is supposed to burn a little—may you know this: humans and books are destined to burn and die side by side. People, the stories they love, the pages that contain them—we are companions throughout all of time.
Take this knowledge with you. Know it as you know the raw elements of our cause—the blood, ink, and fire. Pass it on to those who begin our new communities in hiding. And should you ever come to doubt its truth, ask yourselves what will become of us when the books are gone? When the written record of our history, the memory of our mistakes and failures, our triumphs, our learning perishes in fire . . . can we survive?
Yes, that’s right, Holofernes. We will most certainly find out.
There. The oath is sworn.
You may all release your ashes.
FIRE
NOELLE
THIRTY-SEVEN
Killem is burning. The Fell troopers leave behind a parting gift: a tapestry of fire spreading rapidly over the fields. The flames rage into the night, blazing brighter than imaginable. Soldiers stop their celebrating and scramble to put out the inferno.
I send Banquo and Duncan to find their father as Grandpa and I make our way from the house, the backpack weighted with the volumes. Outside, I’m relieved when I see Mac come running up to us.
“What the hell happened?” he asks, taking us in.
“Scythe found us.”
Mac helps my grandfather sit on the stoop. Grandpa doubles over in agony, then throws up on the ground.
“Jesus!” Mac cries. “What did they do to him? We’ve got to get him inside.”
“No, there’s no time! We need to leave, right now. He’s been poisoned, Mac. With a Never Blade.”
His face registers my fear. “We can treat him. The medical unit . . .”
“It’s Fell’s drug,” I tell him. “They have the antidote.”
“And you’ll get it in exchange for the books and your life.”
I nod. “I have forty-eight hours to get the other volumes and get the antidote from Fell.”
“Damn it!” Mac cries. “So you’re actually going to go through with it?”
“I don’t have a choice! If I don’t give them what they want, my grandfather will die!”
“Stay here. I’ll bring the RV.”
“What about Ledger?” I ask, my heart suddenly in my throat.
“I haven’t seen him since the training grounds,” Mac says quietly.
I feel panic rising in my chest. Ledger made it. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s alive because I absolutely need him to be.
In minutes, Mac pulls up with the RV. We get Grandpa inside. I put a damp washcloth on his forehead and turn the lights low. “We’ll be leaving soon,” I tell him. “Hang on just a little longer, Grandpa.”
I stop Mac outside. “No sign of Ledger?”
“My father is out doing one last sweep with the fire squad. Maybe he got caught in the cross fire and took cover in the trees.”
My eyes sweep the forests in the distance, and I wince. They have been devoured by the fire.
“We’ll find him, Noelle. Here.” He takes off his watch and hands it to me. “I’ve set a timer, so you know how many hours you have left.”
“Thank you,” I say and add it to my wrist, next to the leather cuff from John. My head spins when I see the time. 47:59:12.
My grandfather is growing weaker by the minute. My heart sinks at the thought of making another impossible choice, having to leave Ledger here in Killem. Of going on alone. For a moment, I lose my breath, then regain it when I see Ledger coming toward us from the glowing fields, Macbeth right behind him.
He draws me into him, holding me with his gaze, his dark-blue eyes alight. “Hi, Elle.”
A tidal wave of relief washes over me. I have the sudden urge to throw myself onto him, to hold him, to find his lips and kiss them a thousand times with happiness. And it wouldn’t even matter what the consequences would be. I’d take them willingly, the vision, the story, the pain. All of it. Because Ledger is alive.
Tears well in my eyes as I turn to Macbeth. “Thank you. Thank you, for finding him.”
“Don’t thank me,” Macbeth says. “This kid can fight. He rescued eight of our soldiers who got trapped beyond the tree line.”
I hug Macbeth and take his hand. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Macbeth’s eyes sadden. “What is it?”
“Your mother . . . Lady M . . . she didn’t make it. Scythe . . . he . . .”
“Yes, I know,” Macbeth says. “The boys told me what happened. My mother was the strongest person I ever knew.” His eyes moisten as he places a hand on my shoulder. “She would not have given her life for something—or someone—she didn’t believe in.”
His eyes search me knowingly for a moment before I realize: he’s talking about me. About the cause and the Rising. My stomach pangs with guilt for what I must do.
“Noelle!” I look up. Ros runs over to us from the barracks, her hair bouncing wildly. “You’re okay!” She throws her arms around me, nearly toppling me to the ground.
“Me? I was worried about you!”
She looks at me strangely, like she wants to say something.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“I’ve decided to stay here. To join Killem’s army.”
“Have you now?” Macbeth says, looking pleased.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Ros, are you sure?” I ask her.
“I belong here. I feel like I can make a real difference in Killem.”
The RV’s engine roars to life. “She’s all fired up and ready to go,” Mac says, hopping out. “You need to get on the road.”
I wrap my arms around Ros and hold her tight, knowing this might be good-bye for good. She tenses under my embrace, then relaxes. “Killem is lucky to have you.”
We say good-bye to Mac, his father, and Ros one last time. I give Duncan and Banquo a squeeze and take a snapshot of their faces to hold in my mind as I wonder what the last Sovereigns will mean for us and whether we will survive to see all of them.
We head east once more toward the coming dawn. I sit in the bedroom, holding Grandpa’s hand and watching the tawny horizon shift in the new day’s light. Every half hour or so, I visit Ledger and ask him to drive faster. This time, when I go up front, he says, “Still four hundred miles to go.”
“Do you think we can make it?”
Ledger keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn’t answer or look at me. Not even once. So I sit beside him for a moment. Doesn’t he know how relieved I am he’s still with us? That with everything we’ve overcome and everything we’ve lost, we’re still together? I decide to tell him. “Ledger, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“I thought s
omething happened to you out there.”
“Oh, you mean on the field. That was nothing, Noelle. Thousands of people go to war and die, and are born to war and die over and over again. And it will never stop. Not even if you give yourself up. It will never, ever stop.”
“You don’t believe that,” I say, studying his face. “I know you don’t.”
“How do you intend to stop them if you give yourself up to Fell? What chance will you have?”
“I’ll find a way. If I am the reader, and I am supposed to find something in those books, then I’ll find a way to keep it from Fell.”
“You saw what they did to your grandfather. You won’t have a choice once Cadge gets to you.”
“If there were any other way to save my grandfather, believe me, I would try it.”
“I know,” he says, softly. “But he doesn’t want you to save him. Can’t you see that?” His voice is rising. “Because I can. Noelle, he is willing that poison to kill him so you don’t give yourself up to them. He’ll do anything to keep you safe. Even if it means dying in the process.”
Ledger’s eyes widen, and suddenly I sense his panic. My grandfather would do . . . anything!
I bolt from the seat and run to the back of the RV. The room is empty, the bed just a mess of sheets, sweat, and blood. “Grandpa!” I shout. “Where are you?”
Something falls and breaks in the bathroom. A low thud reverberates through the floor. I race to the door and stop short. Broken pieces of the bathroom mirror reflect the scene at a million different angles. I spot my grandfather’s arm, hanging limp over the bathtub.
“No!” I dive to the floor and grab a towel, then pry the shard of glass from my grandfather’s grasp, where it’s poised to slice through his wrist.
I feel the RV slow to a stop. Ledger races back to us. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “He’s okay.”
He kneels down by my grandfather and puts one hand on his trembling shoulder. “William, what were you thinking? We need you. Noelle needs you!”
“I can’t let her go to them,” he cries. “She’s everything! She’s my family! I don’t know what I’d do if they took her from me.”