Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for THE LETTING
The Letting
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“What if the Devil doesn’t know he’s the Devil?” I ask.
Phoenix shakes his head, confused. “What?”
“Why? Why does the bad I’ve done have to define me?”
“Because you’re a murdering sadist,” he snaps back at me.
“No, I am not.” I clench my teeth, standing my ground. I am tired of these labels I am suddenly wearing. “I never, I mean never knew what happened to those girls I led to the Lettings. I am so very sorry I played any role in this vile enterprise in which we exist, but I was clueless. Maybe I’m ignorant, or downright stupid, but I would rather have been dead than be responsible for hurting anyone. And before you go throwing malicious names around, maybe it’s time you consider maybe you’re wrong...? What if you kidnapped and tortured me in the name of a revolution that is wrong?”
“It’s not,” he argues.
“But I didn’t think I was wrong, either.” I am exasperated. “Don’t you get it?” He takes a step back away from me, but I go on. “We are completely turned around. The only information we’re fed is from a corrupt enterprise. What makes you think your information is any more accurate than mine?”
For the first time ever, he looks terrified. I let a moment go by before I gesture for Raven to come over, and she hurries to my side.
“This is Raven,” I say, slowly, talking to Phoenix. “She’s your sister.”
Praise for THE LETTING
“Cathrine Goldstein’s THE LETTING offers a chilling vision of the not-too-distant future. Idealistic and patriotic Veronica Billings discovers to her horror she’s been the New World’s most successful executioner. In Goldstein’s pulse-pounding thriller, the fearless seventeen-year-old races to save humanity, and those she cares for, before Veronica becomes her own next victim of The Letting.”
~Michael Murphy, NY mystery author
“THE LETTING is The Handmaid's Tale meets The Hunger Games, a tense ride that slowly squeezes you between its fingers until you cry mercy, and beg to find out how it will all end.”
~Kristen Rutherford, head writer of The Nerdist Show on BBC America, host of #parent on Geek & Sundry
The Letting
by
Cathrine Goldstein
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Letting
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Cathrine Goldstein
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Climbing Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-662-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-663-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Jay, Penelope, and Pickle.
Thank you.
Chapter One
The hot summer night is so oppressive the heat clings to my body like a dead weight I’m unable to shake. Mosquitoes buzz by me, dive-bombing my head, circling my ponytail, hovering at my ear. I lift a heavy hand to swat them away, but to me they are little more than a noisy nuisance. For some reason, they never bother to bite me. I wonder if I’ve grown immune to them, spending so many long summer evenings here in the deep woods where the mosquitoes thrive. But no, when I think about it, I can’t recall ever having one single mosquito bite. Ever. I guess they just don’t like me.
Trudging across campus, I will myself to think about what it’s like to do these bed checks in the middle of winter, when the snow is past my calf, and I’m certain I’ll pull my foot clear from my boot as I lift it, slogging my way from cabin to cabin. On those nights, the cold is biting, and it whips my cheeks until they are raw. Tonight, as the perspiration dots my forehead, I realize my imagery isn’t working. It’s still hot as hell. I have to laugh when I think of how, on those bitter nights, I do my best to imagine nights just like tonight, nights when the sun has mercifully gone down, but the temperature still hovers over ninety degrees. Come to think of it, imagining didn’t work then, either. Frankly, it never works, but imagining another time and place comes naturally to me. To all of us. It’s what we’ve been taught since birth.
As I stomp across the grounds, I make little dust clouds with my boots. Thankfully, this summer has been blissfully dry. But because of it, our landscape is little more than large patches of brown dirt. I reach the cabin and slowly, arduously, raise my hand to knock. There’s no real reason. The girls love it when I visit. They look forward to it, and it is my jurisdiction. But I do it anyway, out of courtesy and politeness. After all, when these girls “blossom” and leave me, they are moving on to the New World, and who knows what manners they will be expected to know. The least I can do is help prepare them.
The thought of them leaving me makes me sad, and I take a long, labored breath. I watch my hand rap on the rickety cabin door as if I am watching it move through water. The amount of effort it takes to do even this small action astounds me. I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my spine. The cabin door rattles in response, but even it seems too tired to shake and wobble as it usually does. I hear small squeals of delight from inside, and I peer through the ripped screen on the cabin door. Almost all of the girls in cabin O are already in bed, but they’re waiting for me to tuck them in, tell them a story, and kiss them good-night. All the things their mothers would be doing if they were still at home. No matter how difficult home was, it’s still devastating to leave your mother behind.
Cabin O has always had a soft spot in my heart, perhaps because I am an O as well, or maybe it’s because these girls are just so young. “Ronnie,” one of the girls squeals. “Come in. Come in.”
I let myself glide through the door, and it slams shut behind me. No matter how often I have complained to management and asked them to come fix it, no matter how hard I tug on it, it never closes completely. Because of this, there is no feasible way to keep the mosquitoes out, so I have devised a way to tuck all of my campers in at night, covering them with sheets of mosquito netting I found in one of the old, unused buildings at the far edge of camp. It was one of the buildings in use when we were busy, but no one has stepp
ed in there in years. I have all of my campers sleep in sleeping bags in rows, on the floor, and I pitch “peaks” with tent poles. Then I drape the netting across the poles and it falls gracefully over the top of the sleeping girls. I do this in every one of my cabins, cabin A, cabin B, cabin AB and this, cabin O. I have already been to the other cabins, and they are set for the night. I wipe the sweat that’s dripped onto my brow and enter into the darkness of cabin O.
“Ronnie?” the tiny voice repeats itself.
“Lulu?” I ask. Of course, I know it’s Lulu calling my name. The eldest of this little group, she has made herself my honorary sidekick. Although I love all my girls, there is a special place in my heart for her.
Through the darkness, I smile at her. This is the smallest group of girls I’ve ever had in cabin O, but I’m not surprised. Once prevalent, O is now almost extinct. These girls are also the youngest I’ve had at my camp, ever, and they attached to me immediately. I was ten when I came, but that was because I was so tall they thought I was older. They used to wait to bring the girls to camp until they were eleven, but now they come as young as eight or nine. Just babies. But as sad as it makes me that they’re here at such a young age, I’m also glad I’ll be able to spend more time with them before they blossom and are sent on to the New World. Every time a group of my campers leaves me, it breaks my heart. I know when these girls go, it very nearly will kill me.
“What story tonight?” I sit cross-legged on the floor, at the foot of their sleeping bags and yank on my sticky tank top, pulling it away from my body.
“Tell us about the New World.” Lulu doesn’t miss a beat.
“The New World?” I tease. “Aren’t you tired of that story?”
“Nooooo.” Four tiny little voices speak in unison.
“Shh…” I say quieting them, good-naturedly. It’s not that I’m doing anything wrong, but it is past curfew, and Margaret, my superior, looks for any reason she can to reprimand me. I smile at my girls. I know I’m safe here, no one will check up on me. Sometimes Margaret will do the midday inspections, but she tries never to come into the cabins at night. She acts as if it’s beneath her, but I know the truth is that she’s afraid of the dark. The other Leader, my best friend Gretchen, does the morning inspections, and so I handle the night all on my own. I like it that way.
“Quiet voices,” I tell my girls. Although I know no one is going to double-check my work, I don’t want to be too loud and risk getting any of us into trouble. The Letting is in two days, and the girls are all supposed to be rested and well fed. And for these girls in cabin O, this is their first Letting. Each day that draws closer to the eventful day, their adrenaline increases. Tomorrow night, it will be nearly impossible for any of them to sleep. I’m sure I’ll spend the night in their cabin consoling them, but I don’t mind, especially since I may not see them for days after the Letting.
“Okay, lie down and close your eyes.” The girls try, though the heat seems to make even this impossible. Slowly, I feel calm make its way into the cabin. It lingers, hovering above the girls, but patiently pushes past the oppressive heat and falls quietly on top of us all. Sitting there next to four little girls, all missing their dolls and their mothers, my heart aches for them. The least I can do is keep their minds occupied. Besides, I like talking about the New World. It’s where my own mother is, and it makes me feel closer to her.
“Once upon a time,” I begin, “the world was a different place. It was a world where people were not obligated to help one another and so they didn’t. Where words like ‘charity’ and ‘altruism’ were used only by a minority group, the ‘Good People,’ or the ‘Givers’ as we call them. They were the only ones who bothered to help.”
I hear a small yawn from the tiniest of the girls, Lilly, who has been enjoying her past few months at camp, thinking she was still too small to be called to the Letting, and much too young to be sent to the New World. For her, this had all been pure entertainment, until now. But this time around, they have summoned even her. I stare at her thoughtfully and think, maybe she was on to something. Maybe at least some part of childhood should consist of simple pleasure.
“Sorry.” Lilly assumes I stopped telling the story because she yawned.
“It’s fine.” I try to reassure her. “It’s bedtime. It’s okay to yawn.”
I look around, and through the darkness, I see tiny shapes moving underneath the mosquito netting. Some flip onto their sides or tummies. I go on.
“Those people, the Givers, were the forefathers of our world.” I know this because back before I was sent to camp, when I was still in school, my history teacher had told us this in class.
I look around the room of cabin O and am gripped with the simultaneous, paradoxical feelings of immense gratitude and deep melancholy, when I realize that once these girls move on to the New World, they will receive educations I can only dream about. My enthusiasm for their educations is what makes me so confident about bringing these young girls to the Lettings. No matter what shape they are in when they come back to me, I know fairly soon, once they have paid their debt to society, they will be reunited with their mothers and given stellar educations.
I hear a faint snore, but I go on remembering my history textbook, my story almost verbatim. “The rest of the people, the ‘Selfish People’, or the ‘Takers’ as we call them, spent their time working with the sole intent to make money. They were involved in hedonistic rituals, useless recreational activities, and the constant pursuit of happiness. The most wasteful of all of these things was the time they spent on small machines they carried with them day in and day out—machines they claimed connected them to the rest of the world.”
“They didn’t?” asks a still wide-awake camper. Straining through the darkness, I see it is Violet, Lilly’s older sister, who’s asked the question. The fact that she’s asked this, and not the meaning of the word hedonistic, proves they are now prepping these girls at a remarkably young age. Lilly sleeps now, curled up next to Violet, snoring faintly.
“No,” I answer. “These people spent more and more time in isolation, asking these machines to do more and more things for them. Soon the machines were everywhere, and they had taken over. Schools as we know them ceased to exist. All students learned their schoolwork at home, staring into one of those machines that would connect them to their classroom. All adults worked from home too, and soon social interaction became passé. They were a civilization of lazy, greedy people who relied entirely on machines. Soon, their once overpopulated world began to die off because there was no social interaction left between people. Within a few generations, they forgot how.”
“But social interaction is mandatory.” It’s Lulu. She sits up and leans forward, waiting for my response. I look at her, stunned. I had no idea they were now informing girls this young about the Couplings. She can read the look on my face. “I’m the oldest.”
Through the darkness, I can see her shrug. “I overheard the Collector telling my mother she was due.”
I nod. I look at Lulu’s bright blue eyes and long blonde hair, and I know her mother must have fought hard to free Lulu from the life of a Coupling. For some reason, tonight I can’t help myself.
I glance at the little girl. “Lulu, if you’re the oldest, do you know how many brothers or sisters you have?” I realize I’m whispering, and clear my throat.
“I know of three for sure,” she answers quietly. “Two were boys and my sister, Clara, who will probably be coming here soon. Hopefully. I’ve told her all about the New World. And all about you.”
“Me?” I ask, surprised. “How did you tell her about me?” I wonder if Lulu has some secret communication going with the city.
“I told her before. I told her we could have a better life if we were a good match. We all know about you. It’s a big honor to come to your camp.”
I am floored by the prospect of anyone in the city knowing me, but still it makes me smile. I know I am a good government worker, and one of t
he main reasons Margaret hates me so very much is because I have been highly decorated as a Leader. One whole wall of my cabin is filled with plaques and documents honoring me for my excellent service. I have singlehandedly brought more girls to the Lettings than anyone else, ever, in the history of the world. And what’s more, I have succeeded, time and again, from keeping the rebels, who want to steal the young girls, far from our camp.
Yet, despite all that, there is some question in my mind. Some seed my mother planted, all those years ago. But tonight, like every night, I push that grain of uncertainty away and focus on my accomplishments. It is hot tonight, but the sense of pride I feel is comforting. I look over the bodies of my four little girls, wondering about them. How many have siblings they know nothing about? What were their lives like back home? Only one, Raven, the singular one of them with dark hair, seems wide awake. She stares at me with watchful eyes, trying to anticipate my next move. Lilly wakes with a start, and the other two stretch and yawn, and then, once again, Lilly begins to doze.
“The Old World was every man for himself,” I explain, trying to get back on track.
Something about the way Raven looks at me is unnerving, so I concentrate on the words I am saying. I see them laid out on the pages of a textbook, in front of me.
“Since they were a violent people, they eventually broke out of their confines and brought their basic human needs to the streets. Ironically, once they finally had the one on one contact they so desperately needed, it was too late. Total anarchy began, and they depleted resources until there was nothing left. Thankfully, our forefathers were there to save those few people who survived, and since then the New World has triumphed.
“But the damage done by the selfish people was not completely eradicated. The Takers of the Old World left us in the dire straits we are in now, barely surviving.” My words come faster and louder. “Food and happiness have become commodities that are rationed by our knowledgeable guides.” I suddenly realize I went off script. I look around quickly, avoiding eye contact with Raven, my eyes darting up and down the row of girls, wondering if any one of them was awake enough to notice. Especially Raven. “Food and happiness rationed?”
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