I lean against the rough stone and survey our world. Far below, the children play on the beach, and the rolling landscape of trees, flowers, quaint huts and shops is picturesque . . . literally, like a picture book. Fanciful, dreamlike, artificial. Now that I know the truth—that the “wind” is created through large fans in the ceiling—I have it calculated. The next gust will rustle the treetops in about eight to ten minutes.
To the far right sits another thick, leafy jungle behind a tall fence. Signs posted at intervals warn people to keep away, that the area beyond it is “unsafe.” A long building stretches from the beach bunker up the hill to “The Wall.” There, the Watchtower rises from it to the ceiling.
To our left, a group works to clean up the amphitheatre after whatever show they put on for the children. They sweep the stage and stack chairs, pushing them back against the wall in the sunken area. Mechanical arms decorated with white flowers and vines reach from the stage to the pretend sky, and dangle lights from chains. I imagine standing on that stage beneath them, telling a story to a captivated crowd, but the idea doesn’t excite me as much as I wish it did.
My gaze drifts to the orchard, my favorite place here. On Saturdays, the children are now responsible for collecting the ripened fruit, nuts, and berries there. “Come on.” I head in that direction.
“What are we doing now?” Smudge asks.
“Going to the fence.”
Two elders cease their chatting by a hut when we approach. The man gapes, bearded jaw slung open, as if we’re ghosts who might vanish with the next gust of deceptive wind.
“Morning.” The lady with whitish-gray braid pulled to the side, waves and grins. She tugs her shirt sleeve down over a circular scar on her wrist.
We wave back in passing.
“What was that scar from?” I ask Smudge. “It looked . . . purposeful.”
“The circular scars are given to the humans Lord Daumier deems as the “Pures” of the population . . . which aren’t very many.”
“What a strange place . . .”
By the time we get to the amphitheatre, the space is cleaned and empty. All that remains is a giant, opened case of colorful cloth, which I’m guessing are costumes.
“You still feeling okay?” Smudge asks.
“A million percent better.”
“That’s great, I’m so glad. I’ve been waiting for you to feel better so we could get out and enjoy th—”
“I’m having a hard time with this, Smudge. I doubt I’d ever enjoy it . . . knowing where we really are.”
She’s silent.
“I’m sorry,” I continue. “I hope I can get comfortable here, I do. I want to. But at the moment, every cell inside of me screams no.”
At the entrance in the short wooden gate that surrounds the orchard, a few tossed baskets lie half-full of various nuts. An elder man passes, whistling to himself, strolling barefoot across the crunching leaves with not so much as a glance at us. In fact, a lot of Zentao’s human residents seem to look away from us wherever we go.
“Why do some of them do that?” I ask. “Ignore us?”
“They were ‘Impure’ in Alzanei. For their entire lives, they were not permitted to gaze upon the faces of Pures. It is a learned behavior, a habit.”
“Okay . . . I’m confused.”
“Ah, it’s hard to explain, I suppose, if you’ve never experienced life in Alzanei.”
“I guess so.”
Across the orchard, almost to the farm, we come to my favorite trees, tall with floppy leaves and brown spheres hanging in clusters where their branches meet the trunk. I remember coconut water was one of the first things Baby Lou tasted that wasn’t slop. Thanks to Smudge.
“I still can’t believe there’s water in those,” I say.
“It is hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
Beyond the palm trees are Johnny’s favorites: the banana trees. Smudge yanks a ripe banana off of a branch and slides it down into her back pocket.
I giggle. “You two are so adorable.”
“Hush.” She blushes.
“No, really. Watching you and Johnny fall in love is a highlight of my day. I’m envious, but in a good way, you know. Happy for you.” I yank a banana off for myself. “I wish things could be that perfect and simple for me.”
Smudge takes my hand. “In the words of our dear friend, Em, ‘Love is heartache, sister. Ain’t nothin’ easy about it.’” Her Emerson impersonation is way off and makes me laugh. She does, too, but it simmers to a sigh. “I’m sure my time is coming,” she says. “It would be . . . unrealistic to believe otherwise.”
We leave the orchard and arrive at the farm just as Mr. Tanner’s exiting the wide, swinging gate to the corral with an empty feed bag. He tips his floppy hat to us and heads down the path through the orchard. I climb onto the railing and peer into the giant stall covered with reddish-brown dirt. Clustered here and there in groups are chickens, pigs, and . . . “What are those called again?” I point to the little furry things with beards and two stubby horns.
“Goats.”
“That’s right. How did they get them down here?”
“Raffai’s men poached a few animals from Alzanei. They’ve bred well and remained healthy.”
By the fence near us, a mother pig lies on her side with a half-dozen suckling piglets. By far one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
“We have to bring the children to see them again soon, like you said. They’ve been begging.” And I’ve been stalling, because I’m afraid they’ll ask me what’s on the other side of the fence over there, beyond the jungle. Lying by omission is one thing, but saying the lie aloud to their sweet, innocent faces would be like swallowing needles, followed by the internal bleeding I’d deserve.
“We will tomorrow,” she says.
“Sounds good. Provided I’m feeling well.”
I observe the animals play for a long moment, losing myself in their naïve oblivion. Like the children, they too are free because they don’t know the truth. When I first met them, I cried for ten minutes. My entire life, I believed the only animals left on Earth were common rats and huge, bloodthirsty ones. I never expected a variety of cuddly friends, straight from the books I used to read to the children.
After I’ve soaked up plenty of earthy animal vibes and manure aroma, I hop down from the railing and spy a gate with a large padlock on it on the other side of the corral. Smudge follows me to it, and we stand staring into a dense jungle of trees and vines. I give the lock a jostle. “Why is this here?”
“For show,” Smudge says. “To protect the illusion. A few feet into those trees and you’ll hit a wall.”
“Is this the only gate?”
“No, the other’s up the hill some.”
“Hey!” a voice calls behind us, making me jump. Jax jogs toward us, panting, a grin on his face.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I say.
“Gotta keep you sharp.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “What are you two doing over here? Trying to escape?”
“Exploring.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” He catches his breath and fiddles with a button on his shirt. “Can I talk to you, Joy? In private?”
“Uh . . .”
Smudge takes the plate from me. “I’ll go, it’s no problem. Remember, we have Studies in about forty-five minutes.”
“Okay. We’ll meet you there.” I wave. “Save me a seat.”
She snickers. “Sure thing, Joy.”
There are more empty seats than students in our Studies class.
“Thanks, Smudge,” Jax says.
“No problem. See you two soon.” And she heads off down the path, hands stuffed into her pockets, kicking up dust.
Jax leans against the fence, peeks through the bars. “Man . . . it’s a good
thing this fence is here. Can you imagine what kind of scary monsters are waiting for us out there?” He gives me a nudge.
“Funny.” I need to tell him. Now would be the perfect time.
“So, I’ve been thinking these past few days . . .” Jax turns, rests his back against the fence, a loose grip on a bar between us.
“Oh? About what?”
“A lot of things . . . about us.”
Our eyes meet. “What have you come up with?” My fingers clasp his on the fence, the way they used to in the hole between our dorm rooms at the Tree Factory.
He grins, returning the gesture with a squeeze. “We’ve been friends for years, but under those conditions . . . ? Did we really know each other? That was a desperate situation, and we needed comfort any way we could get it, am I right?”
“Yes. I’d say so.”
“And Joy . . . the thing with Aby? I don’t know what that was. I’m seriously sick to my stomach every time I think about it.”
“It’s over, Jax. I told you I forgive you, so let’s just leave it in the past where it belongs, okay?”
“Gotcha.”
Something rustles in the bushes near us, and we turn. Johnny creeps out, finger to his lips, crossbow raised. He inches forward, aims at an adjacent bush, squeezes the trigger, and nails a large rat through the skull.
“Yum.” He licks his lips. “Now that’s a meal.”
“You go right ahead,” I say. “You’re in your element here, Johnny.”
“I am.” He kneels and plucks the bolt from the rodent, slinging blood into the dirt. “Now all I need is a cute girl and a couple bananas.” He flinches with his next step. “And a new back.”
I point toward the Children’s and Medical Center. “Two out of three went that way. And I’m sure she’d be happy to help with the pain.”
“Damn, is she perfect, or what?” He adjusts Old Jonesy’s hat and sighs. “I gotta go. You two goin’ to Studies?”
Jax nods.
“Be there in a bit,” I say.
After watching Johnny head back up the hill, we stand in silence for a long moment. I itch to spill the truth, but every time I go to open my mouth, the words won’t come out.
“So, anyway,” Jax says. “We should start over. As friends. And go from there . . . ? Things are different now. We’ll have a clean slate, we can start fresh. We’re free. We can finally lead normal lives, be normal people under normal circumstances.”
My stomach churns with these secrets now, and chewing leaves can’t cure that. Sour, foul, yet . . . still I can’t spit them out. I’m horrible for keeping them from him.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Sounds perfect.” I’m a wretched human being.
He grins back, oblivious. “Great.”
“I have a question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“What about Mateo?”
“What about him?” He laughs. “You barely know the guy, come on.”
“But . . . if we get to that point and I decide to . . . take things further with him. Would you be mad?”
Jax swallows hard in a moment of indecision. “No, of course not. I want you to be happy, Joy.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek, then leans over and kisses me there. “I just want you to be happy.”
When we get to Studies, Emerson and Pedro chatter away and laugh, giddy new brothers. Johnny stuffs his face in banana heaven next to Smudge, and on the other side of her stands an empty seat . . . right next to Mateo. Jax waves me on, then plops down next to Vila, of course. I offer Mateo a quavering half-smile and take my seat, leaving an obvious space between us. A glance over finds that brilliant, starry-eyed smile that once made my heart dance among warm, tickling flames curling up from my belly. There’s a fading ember left now, a smoldering whisper of yearning for rekindling.
“So”—Mateo’s hot breath is in my ear—“are you going to tell me the real reason you’ve been avoiding me? Did I upset you?”
“No.” I stare at my hands in my lap. “I’ve had a lot to process, that’s all.”
“Can we talk later? Please? After Studies? Or dinner . . . ?”
“After dinner, yes. I have storytime after Studies.”
“Okay, where do you want to meet?”
“On the beach, I guess. Unless you’d prefer somewhere else. How’s your knee?”
“Better. The doctors here are great. Physical therapy, along with injections. We’ll monitor improvement for a few weeks before they decide if I need surgery and what type will best repair the damage. We’re so lucky to be here.” And he flashes that grin again.
Once more, I wish I didn’t know the truth. Or that the truth was a lie. That would be even better.
A few minutes later, Professor Al enters the room with his usual black case full of whatever materials we’ll be studying for the day. Half of the brittle pages peek out through the sides, and slicked to his scalp in a sweaty film lay his few gray strings of hair. His ancient, dingy rainbow suspenders are twisted on one side, and a shirttail hangs loose from his waistband. “Hello, children!” He sets the case down onto his tiny desk and pries it open. “How are you all this fine day?”
Mumbles roll through the room.
Professor Al glances from face to face. “Well . . . don’t be too excited, now.” Then he whistles for a moment, snapping his fingers to a beat only he hears, followed by the clap of his hands. “All right, today we’ll be doing reading exercises. Can any of you read?”
I raise my hand.
“Oh good! That’s right, Joy the Storyteller, daughter of the great Zephyr the Magnificent.” He clasps his hands in front of him and bows. “The magic and myth-makers are but a rare breed in our times, my dear. We are indeed blessed to have you—to have all of you—here with us.”
For the next hour, Professor Al goes over the alphabet, simple words, and our names. We each take turns writing them with white rocks on the black wall behind him. And though there’s embarrassment at first, each owns a glimmer of excitement for this new world spreading open before them.
Once we’ve all taken our turns, Professor Al paces at the front of the room. He rambles on about the beauty of the written word, of poetry and prose, and the magical land that resides in the mind, awaiting its muse to set it free with pen and tongue. A lofty lesson for people who can’t even read yet, but I enjoy listening to his words, and I think everyone else does, too. They sit motionless, glued to his every move, hanging on every word like it might be his last. We’ve never been taught before, other than how to operate machines and sort scraps.
A surge of emotion swells in me, and I tear up. Professor Al’s words blur to a hum amid my thoughts and awe of this moment. He’s in his own kind of paradise, meandering about the room, hands clasped behind his back while he rambles on, face plastered with the biggest of smiles. He hasn’t a care in the world. Perhaps that’s what I’m most intrigued by. He is so content, joyful even, with nothing more than the freedom to be, and to teach. Same as Mr. Tanner and his greenhouses.
By the time Studies is over, my nausea has returned, but after another “leaf snack,” it subsides once more. Amazing things grow in an environment which favors life. I suppose I could grow to appreciate it here. When the sickness doesn’t control my every waking moment, I’ll probably have a more positive outlook.
“I’ll see you after dinner.” Mateo brushes my arm, then we part ways—him, down to the shore with Pedro, Emerson, and Vila, and me with Smudge and Johnny, up the slope to the Zentao Children’s and Medical Center.
“Hang on,” Jax calls from behind.
We slow to let him catch up.
“Thought you were going to the beach with V today?” Johnny flicks the brim of Old Jonesy’s hat and gives Jax a sly wink.
Jax shoots him a look.
“What?” Johnny shrug
s. “It’s obvious, man.”
“It’s nothing. We’re friends, that’s it.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Smudge claps her hands. “So, who wants to meet Cheyenne? I told her two days ago I’d bring my human friends by soon.”
“How long do we have until storytime?” I ask.
“A little less than an hour.”
“So, friends, huh?” Johnny slides an arm around Smudge’s waist, tugs her close. Smudge’s face grows red, and she fumbles for words.
“I’d love to meet her,” I say. “The shell painter, right?”
“Yes.” Smudge pushes back from Johnny and takes his hands instead. “She is . . . a woman of many intrigues.”
A few minutes later, we’re in front of the brown hut, near a sign that now reads: Cheyenne’s—Zentao’s Finest (and only!) Hand-Decorated Treasures. Just yesterday, Smudge herself repainted its new name in silver, with a pair of Sadie’s butterflies in flight on either side. And I’m positive Cheyenne requested this because she knew how much Smudge would enjoy doing it.
The door’s already open, and hanging from its frame are tinkling chimes, ethereal and haunting. We follow Smudge inside to a warm, colorful room, an array of trinkets, gadgets, and decorations perched on shelves in every corner. She leads us toward an area dotted with plants and a cluster of potted trees. To our right is a glass cabinet lined with intricately painted shells and rocks, and other tiny, beautiful objects. I reach out to touch one, but pull my hand back at the last moment. Maybe I shouldn’t.
“Oh, that’s fine, sweetheart.” Cheyenne’s voice rises from behind a full branch of floppy leaves, her age apparent from its feeble tone. “Touch anything that tickles your intrigues, dear.”
“Thank you. They’re exquisite.”
“Aww, well, you’re kind to say so.”
I pick up a rock from the shelf and trace the perfect lines—intricate swirl patterns that remind me of a faraway galaxy. A tiny universe right here in my palm. It’s remarkable, the most detailed art I’ve ever seen. I set it down again, and we continue toward the central room where Cheyenne sits.
When we pass through the doorway, I freeze, stunned. Cheyenne might be a hundred years old, with two scarred-over circles of skin instead of eyes.
The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
