by Archer Swift
Chapter 14
“And now we come to the penultimate part of our address, the unfortunate but necessary judgments,” said a slick-as-usual Dylain with his hands splayed dramatically, his voice carrying easily over the gathered audience. He played the emcee on our anniversary day, and had introduced the Mzees, those designated to deliver various segments of the state-of-the-year address.
The banqueting tables had been removed from the centre of the field, and we sat informally on the ground scattered around the open, circular area roughly the size of an athletics track. We sat where we had eaten; typically not in our clans, encouraged as we were to mingle with those from other clans—something that we were all eager to do. Of course, on this day, I was anything but eager.
Although positioned up front, the Mzees were also seated on the floor, relaxed and approachable. Anyone addressing the crowd—usually one of the Mzees—would stand upfront, visible to all. The acoustics were fantastic; the dense jungle that surrounded the area blocked out the wind, helping to amplify the speaker’s voice.
Before lunchtime itself, some of the younger leaders were charged with scouting around the surrounding area, making sure there was no trace of predators, even though the Raptor, Wolf and Serpent were not inclined to attack such large crowds of people. And even a Sabre would need to be gravely desperate before doing so. (And just in case, each clan was designated a climbable tree on the periphery of the gathering site.)
The state-of-the-year address followed a set pattern. Matthew Hudson, the second oldest Mzee, kicked off proceedings, giving an update on our population statistics. Twenty-three deaths this past year. Down on last year’s figures, but with no babies born, our population total was down to three hundred and forty-four.
Not good; not good at all.
He had tried his best to cast the most positive light possible on the lower death toll, but when he read aloud our current population number, groans and sighs burst out from among the listening audience like a flu-riddled choir horribly out of tune. And although he didn’t say it, we knew that a large percentage of the dead were women. Many, of course, were taken by our inscrutable adversary, and we assumed those taken were killed. We didn’t want to imagine anything else.
When an older woman named Lily broke down in an agonising, distraught howl, and I couldn’t see her daughter anywhere, I knew she’d suffered an inconsolable loss this past year. Losing a loved one, knowing how they died, was one kind of debilitating grief to bear. Losing a loved one, not knowing what kind of death they were subjected to, was another kind of misery altogether. One of the Mzees, Deborah Jordan, rose to comfort her, and a long silence hung over us as we mourned those dead.
I hate them.
Sarah Evelyn, the only person along with Scott to serve as a Mzee since its inception, was next to speak. Respecting the mood, but tactfully lifting the gloom, she ran through several testimonies reported by the clans, and of course, there was the annual hero-story featuring the one and only Dylain “Buck” Rogers. I nearly threw up when he did a back flip and twirl to an audience desperate for good news and any morsel of hope.
He just sticks in my craw, he does.
I did notice that most of the Mzees dropped their heads at his little show, and Sarah astutely steered the spotlight off him to hail the true acts of courage in our ranks.
Sarah was like a mother to us, and her dignity and class made Dylain’s antics seem even more deplorable. I admired this short, thin woman with skin so dark that the whites of her eyes looked like pearls and her teeth like ivory. Although just a few autumn leaves over five feet, there was nothing frail or flimsy about her. Her steady, dark eyes spoke of wisdom, and her gentle, kind face projected a sense of assurance and comfort.
After Sarah finished, the meeting moved on to some announcements delivered by Dylain himself concerning findings from the Mzees. It primarily had to do with new food sources and a warning about a nascent, poisonous weed that was becoming more prominent along the river’s banks.
In conjunction with his self-confidence and crystal-clear commanding voice, Dylain communicated with his hands. Excessively so. To me, it seemed that the profuse gestures were part of the act, as if he was using ‘sleight of hand’ to distract his audience from who he was. What he was.
Again, I should have listened more carefully. However, with Dylain’s showboating, I guess I just switched off somewhere between him saying, “How white are my teeth, eh?” and something about a new fashion trend for the year to come. I know he was trying to be playful and amusing, and I suppose we could all do with a bit more mirth in our lives. And maybe me more than most.
Yes, I’m looking at you, Ristan!
I had at one point considered that my accumulated wariness of the man was bordering on obsessive craziness, but my suspicions of him, confirmed first by Victor’s disapproving body language and now by the one man I would trust with my life, meant I didn’t see the funny side of anything he said, nor could I take the cocksure sound of his voice much longer.
He did, however, have my full attention when he handed over to Scott for the judgments. My heartbeat immediately sped up with the fresh injection of adrenalin.
Every year, Scott read out the punishments; I assumed he asked to do it. No one could communicate the dire consequences of an offender’s actions with such compassion and grace better than he could. He was a father-figure to us all.
I was so grateful it was him. I had been concerned about how I would react … to the verdict, and the inevitable abuse I’d receive from everyone present. Before he assured me earlier that he knew I was innocent, I had forgotten that the judgment would be proclaimed through his lips. Now I knew I could handle what was to come. Even so, it wasn’t going to be a cake-walk, and my blood felt like sludge in my veins.
Scott cleared his throat, and his eyes trawled across the jittery and jumpy audience—the judgments always brought the festivities to a grinding halt. “To exist as a healthy family,” he began, “we accept that consequences are critical, and we trust, curative for those who hurt our family deliberately or negligently. We assign penalty points based on the severity of the offence, but do so with grief in our hearts, hoping those who transgress will reform and turn from their wrongdoings.”
The crowd was poignantly silent, even though they had heard several versions of this speech. The respect they had for Scott, and the seriousness of the penalties, meant you could have heard a butterfly flap its wings during a hailstorm.
“An accumulation of ten penalty points means banishment,” Scott continued with a heavy heart, “something we’ve only had to do twice since we initiated this practice. As agonizing as it was on both occasions, and I would have taken Williyum’s place … or Axlor’s place … if I could have…” he hesitated in memory of those banished, “…but such a verdict is necessary to maintain a sense of harmony and order among us.”
I remember both those occasions as if they’d happened yesterday. They were deeply grafted into my mind. Permanently so. And in both incidents, Scott did actually beg the Mzees if he could take the offender’s place. Correctly so, his request was denied. His specific reference to Williyum and Axlor each year personalised this communal experience, and never allowed us to see it as merely a clinical exercise. My heart hammered against my ribcage every year; this time, I thought it might tear my chest open.
“Forgive me for repeating what you all know so well. We must restate the major offences, so there is no misunderstanding. Murder is eight points and includes solitary confinement for six months. Attempted murder is six points with three months in solitary, and striking a woman is four points, stealing three points. Persistent defiance of your clan’s collective decisions, two points. For minor offences, one point. Remember…”
Scott inhaled deeply, and remained silent for an unusually long, awkward period. Holding my breath with three-hundred-and-forty-two others, I didn’t know what he was doing.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Remember,
anyone with four or more penalty points cannot be nominated to serve on Huduma.” I recalled his bizarre statement to me in private. The one in which he used leadership and me in the same breath. Now I was possibly the only one among the audience of three hundred and forty-two who knew why he had struggled to get those words out.
“Unfortunately, we have two people who have committed major offences this year, and seven who have committed minor offences. As usual, I’ll simply read out the names of those who have committed minor offences … the clans themselves will know the specific nature of the transgressions involved…”
I started to tremble again as my stomach did a violent flip-flop. My ears mute to the names he spoke aloud; I braced myself for my moment in the dock.
Scott again coughed to clear his throat. He always struggled through this, but the unease around the crowd seemed to suggest that everyone realised it was even more difficult for him than usual. “This year … we have two family members who have committed major offences … first, for stealing … Ricardaz Walton receives three penalty points—”
A rain of boos descended upon a young fifteen-year-old kid from one of the tribes up north. Ashamed, he buried his head into his arms and wept openly. His remorse was genuine as the communal consequences achieved their intended result.
“And s-s-second,” said Scott as the crowd grew unsettlingly silent, not so much because Scott started speaking again, but because it was clear that he was fighting back tears. His whole body began to heave as he desperately tried to continue.
Dylain ran to the front, and seemed to indicate that he would continue. My heart nearly stopped, and my innards just about liquefied.
Please, no!
Dylain’s gesture served only to spur Scott into action. Composing himself, he put an arm across Dylain’s chest in a clear motion that said, “This is my call.” Dylain got the message and stepped back reluctantly.
“Second, for striking a … a woman … according to what his clan claims,” Scott added those six words at the last minute, “Ristan Abel receives four—”
I lost his voice in the barrage of jeers and abuse heaped my way. I hardly noticed, even when a piece of fruit was hurled at me, slapping me on the shoulder. And I didn’t care much for the one who launched the projectile either: Cainn Bracken. A hideous excuse for a human being and a member of Dylain’s clan, Cainn was an idiot and a thug anyway. What gripped my attention was the furious scowl on Dylain’s face. Those six added words—“according to what his clan claims”—had clearly upset him. In front of a perplexed audience, he questioned Scott and then turned to the Mzees in a demonstrative appeal to them … exactly what he was asking for, I could only guess.
I looked over at Scott and realised his eyes were set directly on me. Like a guided beam of assurance, his gaze strengthened my soul even as the heckling around me continued.
Then the most remarkable thing happened.
Gellica stood up among the seated audience, some twenty strides away from me, and turned in my direction. Slowly and deliberately, she put both hands on her heart and then blew me a kiss.
I inhaled so fast the air singed my lungs.
What?! Oh, my gag!
Abruptly, almost magically, the jeering stopped as the confusion set in.
“Isn’t that Gels, the girl he hit?” I heard someone near me ask a friend. Ruzzell must have ensured the rumour machine was well oiled.
“If she’s trying to be sarcastic,” said another, “then it ain’t working.”
“Maybe she enjoys a good smack,” sneered a raspy voice before cackling with laughter. “You know what they say about a chick that tries too hard to please.” I felt my hands curl into fists and my body lurch instinctively towards the sound of his voice, but when it dawned on me that it was Cainn, I knew I’d be wasting my time. You can’t beat the rot out of a putrid core. I exhaled and felt the tension leave my hands.
As brave Gellica sat down, I saw an animated, red-faced Dylain, arms flailing ridiculously, kicking up a scene with the Mzees in front of a crowd that was both baffled and agitated. Sarah seemed to give him a stern telling off before pulling Scott aside for a few words.
After a moment of stilted disquiet, Scott stood tall and cleared his throat. Slowly calm descended on the crowd.
“I apologise for the additional words that you are all no doubt aware I used. I’ve been doing this for many years, and it is … trust me … not easy. Forgive my slip of tongue. Dylain has pointed out the breach, and the Mzees will take it into account. I realise I may have lost the privilege of doing this part of the address next—”
The crowd booed quietly and appropriately, expressing their wish that Scott continue with his specific role in the future. “We love you, Daddy Scott,” someone shouted from the audience.
“Thank you,” Scott waved the crowd quiet, his face still sober and serious. “I make myself accountable to the counsel of the Mzees, and their decision is final.”
I sat amazed, my internal organs slowly reassembling themselves. I was utterly gobsmacked at how he and Gellica had taken the attention off me … and how Scott now, penitent beyond the call of duty, stepped into the breach and took the heat off both of us. Me, the object of the crowd’s vitriol. And brave, brave Gellica … subjecting herself to the audience’s suspicions … both delivered by Scott’s selfless act. He took a huge risk, potentially using up his line of popularity credit with the crowd and his goodwill with his fellow Mzees.
How can I repay your kindness?
Even as the thought passed through my mind, I knew Scott would balk at any notion that I owed him something.
