The List

by Patricia Forde

  Tea, she thought. I’ll make him tea and sponge him down. That will help. She rushed out of the room. She wasn’t a healer. What if he died?

  In the living area, she found the bowl she needed and half-filled it from her precious water supply. Bowl. Water. Flannel. She was beginning to feel feverish herself. What else? The tea. She still had some ginger. She hunted around furiously. Not in the cupboard where she kept such things. Where else could it be? Her breath caught in her throat. There was no ginger. The tea was no good without it. The healer—she would go talk to him. He might help her. She raced out through the shop, pulling the heavy front door behind her. The healer’s shop was on the other side of the road. She hurtled across and was just about to bang on the door when it opened. The healer, John Lurt, stood there, his long face drawn and gray.

  “Yes?” he said, raising one eyebrow.

  “Help,” Letta said. “I need help.”

  “Come,” he said and stood back to let her through.

  The healer’s shop was one of the houses designed by the Green Warriors just before the Melting. A perfect square, thirty strides on each side, made from a plastic resin invented in the last decade before the Melting. It was warm in winter and cool in summer, requiring almost no energy to run, unlike Benjamin’s porous house across the road. The herbs and other remedies hung from the ceiling in great clumps, and shelves covered the walls, displaying the familiar brown paper twists the healer used to package his wares. The place smelled dry and medicinal, Letta thought as she went to stand at the counter. The healer followed her, and then, resting one hand on the counter, he turned to face her. His eyes were steely, Letta thought. The pupils small and wary. He leaned his head toward her.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Fever,” Letta said.

  “You?” the man replied, scrutinizing her face.

  “No,” Letta said. “Boy.”

  The man turned and pulled down his coat from a hook nearby.

  “I go,” he said.

  “No,” Letta said as firmly as she could. “No go.”

  The man sighed.

  “Must see,” he said. “Who sick?”

  Letta swallowed hard. “Please help,” she said again.

  There was silence for a minute. John Lurt was waiting for an explanation.

  “Who sick?” he said again, and for the first time, she noticed the hardness in his words, the way he dropped them sparingly as though they were too heavy to carry any more.

  This had been a mistake, she thought. A mistake. The word bounced in the space between her and the healer.

  “Nobody,” she said, backing out. “Nobody.”

  Letta went through the door as quickly as she could, feeling his eyes following her. She ran across the street, her mind racing. She would go back in and lock up the shop. Then she could concentrate on taking care of Marlo.

  She pushed open the front door, berating herself for having been so careless in leaving it unlocked in the first instance.

  Mrs. Truckle was standing at the counter. “Letta!” she said. “Need two more boxes.” Then, seeing Letta’s expression, she continued apologetically, “Door open. Walked in.”

  “Yes,” Letta said quickly. “Two more. Have here.” She had forgotten to add them to the order Mrs. Truckle had asked for. She reached under the counter and pulled them out.

  “You good?” Mrs. Truckle said gently.

  “Yes,” Letta lied. “Good.”

  The word wasn’t out of her mouth when she heard an almighty crash overhead. Letta jumped. The two women looked at one another. Mrs. Truckle turned her head slowly toward the stairs.

  “Box,” Letta said, the words tumbling out. “Box fall. Upstairs. I go.”

  Mrs. Truckle looked anxiously at the ceiling.

  “Be careful, child,” she said, taking her word boxes. “Very careful.”

  The old woman touched her hand, and Letta, feeling the warmth of that small embrace, wanted to tell Mrs. Truckle everything, to hold her and keep her close. But she knew she couldn’t. She walked to the door with the older woman.

  “Lock now,” Mrs. Truckle said before disappearing into the outside world. Letta did as she said, throwing the bolts as quickly as she could, then tearing through the shop and up the stairs.

  He was lying on the floor. She knelt beside him and took his head in her hands. His skin was dry and hot. She jumped up and quickly fixed the bed, then kneeled behind him and gripped him under the arms to haul him up. It took all her strength, and even then, she felt her back would break from the strain and her arms would be wrenched from their sockets, but she got him onto the bed. She knelt on the floor to catch her breath. Kneeling there on the hard floor, she knew that he would not be going to that wheat field the following day.

  For the rest of the day and through the night, she cared for him as the fever raged in his body. She bathed his face, squeezing the little water that she had from the flannel, and wet his lips. She struggled to keep him lying down, tried to stop him shouting in his ravings and was terrified that someone on the street would hear him despite her efforts. Toward dawn, the fever broke, and he opened his eyes.

  “Oh, Marlo,” she said, relief flowing through her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Have you been there all night?”

  She smiled at him. “How do you feel?” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “What day is it?”

  “Friday,” she said softly.

  He went to stand up.

  “I should go,” he said. “Finn will be there and—”

  She pushed him back. “You can’t go,” she said. “You can hardly stand.”

  He turned his face away from her, and she could feel his frustration.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m going to go.”

  He turned his head slowly and looked at her.

  “No!” he said. “It’s too risky.”

  “It’s risky having you here,” she said, straightening the bed cover.

  He caught her hand. “Why are you doing all this?”

  His question stumped her. Why was she doing it? Because she didn’t want him banished. No matter what he had done. She knew that was the truth.

  “Never mind that now,” she said, pulling away from him. “We need to get food and water. What will happen to you when I’m gone? If the fever comes back.”

  “It won’t,” Marlo said. “I will stay in the Monk’s Room.”

  She nodded, though she could feel the anxiety building in her. She didn’t want to imagine him cowering in the Monk’s Room burning with fever.

  She spent the rest of the morning getting food and water to leave with him, taking almost nothing for herself. He was still not inclined to eat, but she coaxed him to swallow a little bread and a thin vegetable broth. She heard the bells ring eleven times and got ready to leave.

  “I’ll help you to the Monk’s Room,” she said. “And I’ll lock up the shop. You’ll have water, and I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Marlo said. “You need to look out for yourself. Once the show is over, our people will scatter really quickly, heading off in different directions. Try to find Finn. He’s a big bear with jet-black hair and a beard. Tell him Marlo needs him, but be careful.”

  “I will,” Letta cut across him impatiently. All this talk was making her even more nervous. “It’s time I went,” she said.

  Marlo nodded and put his arm about her neck.

  Fifteen minutes later, she closed the door on the Monk’s Room. It had taken that long for him to walk the few strides it took to get him there. He collapsed onto the floor, and Letta thought his skin was the grayest she had ever seen it.

  “Good luck,” he’d managed to whisper before shutting the small door.

  Letta walked carefully through the tow
n, eyes downcast, trying not to draw any attention to herself. She turned north at the tailor’s shop and started the long climb to the wheat fields. The day had been cloudy, but now, the autumn sun erupted from between the clouds, warming her hair. They might not even be there, she told herself. Anything could have happened to make them change their plans. Anything. She kicked a stone out of her way and almost slid on the wet mud. She stopped to catch her breath. The potato fields came into focus first, with the potato pickers bent over like lines of crane birds. Letta ignored them and hurried on. She still had no plan. What would she say when she got to the wheat fields? What business did she have there?

  The workers would know she was up to no good. She must have been crazy to think she could pull this off. Her feet seemed to move of their own volition as her brain screamed at her to stop and change course. She came around the corner and realized she had reached her destination. The wheat fields stretched out on either side of her. The field closest to the road was where the Desecrators planned to be. The long low shed with its innocent flat roof ran along the west side, just as Marlo had described, within fifty strides from where she stood. From that lofty perch, a row of magpies watched the scene unfolding in the field below, their black and white plumage lit bright by the sun. Among the waving sea of golden wheat, the men were stripped to the waist, each one carrying a scythe. Letta watched, hypnotized, as they moved through the yellow grain, their scythes swinging in unison, the swish of their razor-sharp blades alongside the tinkling of the shorn stems.

  She couldn’t see the supervisor, but he was there somewhere, she knew. She looked at the shed roof again. Marlo’s friends weren’t there. She could go home.

  She looked again at the reapers as they swayed from side to side, leaving ribbons of yellow behind them. The feeling of foreboding was everywhere, bearing down on her, making the very air she breathed smell rancid. She turned to leave, glancing one last time at the shed as she did so. One minute, the birds were on the roof; the next, they had taken to the air with loud screeches, and when Letta refocused her eyes she could see a woman. Letta held her breath. An alien sound filled her ears. Music. Music swirling around her. Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah.

  Letta stood shivering in her excitement—her fists clenched, her eyes never straying from the source of the exquisite sound. A tiny, delicate woman playing a saxophone. Her hair billowed about her face in blue-black waves and the sharp edge of her collarbone jutted out from beneath porcelain skin. She wore a black skirt on which were printed enormous old roses, dusky pink, surrounded by soft green leaves. She was in her middle years or older, Letta thought. The instrument itself was a relic from another time, and Letta couldn’t take her eyes off it. She had never seen one, but she knew the word saxophone.

  Shrill, wailing notes filled the air, dark and intense, followed by light trilling passages. The woman’s body moved in time to the music—urgent, determined—and Letta’s own heart quickened at the sound. Memories came flooding back. Her mother’s scent, soft arms around her, twirling, spinning, laughing.

  Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah. The men in the field stopped. They stood facing the shed, their weapons hanging impotently at their sides. Letta forced herself to move, climbing over the rough ditch into the field. The ground was rough and uneven, and the stumps of severed wheat blocked her path. She stayed on the edge of the field, keeping as close to the ditch as she could. Letta walked past the workers, who had stopped where they stood—all eyes on the shed roof. She tried to block the pain from her mind as the wheat stubs cut her legs. She could see him now. Finn. He was tall and well built, his shoulders broad and his head covered in a forest of unkempt black hair on the top of his head and a wild straggly beard covering most of his face. He stood beside the shed, but his eyes were on the field. His large head moved slowly from side to side, missing nothing, waiting to spring into action. Letta hurried on. She had to get to him before they finished playing. No one looked at her, though she heard one man humming along to the music and could feel the heat emanating from his body as she stalked past him. Finally, she was only a yard away from Finn. She stopped. He was looking away from her toward the far end of the field.

  “Finn!” Her voice emerged as little more than a whisper. She tried again. “Finn!”

  This time, he turned, startled. She held his gaze. He moved a stride toward her.

  “Who are you?” he said, his voice deep and rich.

  “Marlo sent me.”

  In a heartbeat, he was beside her, gripping her arms in his rough hands. “Marlo!” he said. “You have seen Marlo?”

  She nodded. In the background, the music was swelling to a climax.

  “He’s sick. In my house,” she stammered.

  “Where?” Finn asked, his eyes boring into her. He shook her ever so slightly. “Where?”

  “The wordsmith’s shop.” She got the words out and pulled away from him. And then she was running. Running and stumbling, sweat trickling down her back, her mouth dry. She thought she heard someone shout, but she didn’t stop to look back. Just as she neared the road, she tripped on a small stone and went sprawling headfirst into the clay. The music stopped and was replaced by an eerie silence for a moment, and then somewhere behind her, she could hear feet pounding the ground, voices calling, sharp whistles. Get up! The words roared in her head, and then she was on her feet again and running onto the road. Only then did she risk looking over her shoulder. Back in the field, there was chaos, with people running in all directions. She couldn’t see Finn, but the roof of the shed was empty.

  Chapter 6

  #299

  Name

  Word to call person

  As Letta opened her front door, the music of the saxophone was still in her ears. She could barely wait to tell Marlo all about it. Even remembering it stirred powerful emotions and memories. Was it always like that with music?

  She sprinted up the stairs, not stopping to take off her coat. She stopped at the Monk’s Room. The door was open.

  “Marlo?”

  There was no one there. No sign that anyone had ever been there. Had he recovered enough to go down to the bedroom? She couldn’t imagine that. He had been so weak earlier. She hurried down there regardless, an uneasy feeling gnawing the pit of her stomach. She threw open the bedroom door. Everything was exactly as she left it. Where could he be? She hurried back downstairs, her mind racing. Could the gavvers have found him? If they had, wouldn’t they be here waiting for her? A sudden draft of cold air hit her. She walked toward the back door. It was ajar. Had he left? She ran to the door and out into the street. He was lying there, not moving.

  “Marlo!”

  He groaned but didn’t open his eyes. She looked up in alarm. Mercifully, she couldn’t see any people. She had to get him inside before someone noticed. Grabbing him under the arms, she dragged him, stride by stride, to the door and then over the threshold. As soon as he was inside, she slammed the door and leaned against it trying to catch her breath, her arms aching. He moaned again. Had she hurt him? She knelt down and took his cold hand in hers. He opened his eyes.

  “Letta!” He squeezed her hand.

  “What were you doing?” Letta said. “Why didn’t you stay in the Monk’s Room?”

  “I thought I could get to the field. I felt better and…”

  “And?”

  “I shouldn’t stay here. I’m putting you in danger.”

  “Can you stand?” Letta looked at him anxiously.

  “I think so,” he said.

  It took a long time for Letta to get him to his feet and even longer to make the long journey up the stairs—Marlo’s arm around her shoulder and their feet keeping time with one another. Finally, he was back in bed. As soon as he lay down, his eyes closed again.

  Letta sank into the chair in the corner of the room and breathed a long sigh of relief. She could hear him breathing, moaning slightly. After an hour or
so, she got up and walked over to the bed. A stray wisp of hair covered his eye. Gently, she swept it away and then left her hand for a moment on his forehead. A shiver ran through her.

  He sighed and opened his eyes. She pulled away from him, pretending to straighten the covers. He turned to her, his eyes full of questions.

  “I gave Finn the message,” Letta said. “Now we have to wait.”

  “You saw the show?” he asked.

  Letta nodded. “A beautiful woman played music on a saxophone.”

  Marlo smiled. “Leyla,” he said.

  “It was amazing,” Letta said. “The music. It’s been so long since I heard it.”

  Marlo nodded again. “She plays beautifully,” he said. “She used to work with Noa until he banned music.”

  She found it hard to believe that the woman would have left John Noa to go live with Desecrators because of something like music. Did people never understand that they had to make sacrifices for Ark?

  Silence filled the space between them, but Letta felt that it was a comfortable silence, with each of them lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the rain was pelting down, hopping off the tin roof and interspersed with low grumbles of thunder.

  She wondered where Benjamin was. Was he out in that weather? It was hard to believe he had only been gone a few days. She lay back in her chair and gave herself over to the melody of the rain. She jumped when Marlo spoke.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You are very brave.”

  “Am I?” she said softly.

  “What do you want to do with your life, Letta?” Marlo asked.

  Letta shrugged. “I want to be a wordsmith. I want to be part of the new world. I don’t think about it much.”

  Marlo nodded. “You think we can build a new world here in Ark?”

  “Of course,” Letta said. “Don’t you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not like this. Not without freedom.”

  Letta frowned. “I don’t understand you,” she said. “John Noa wants what’s best for all of us. For humans and animals and the planet itself. You know what happened before. How could you risk everything again?”