by Casey Hays
“I already gave you my answer,” I say. “If it can be helped, I don’t want it.”
“I know,” she says as if this is what she’s expected from me all along. “But the Archer has spoken. Your destiny is set.” She stares into my soul it seems. “It can’t be helped.”
“He hasn’t spoken to me,” I say.
She casts sad eyes my way as if to say she’s sorry I am so faithless.
“Oh, he has, but you aren’t listening.”
I clench my jaw. We walk in silence. There are a million things I want to say, but I only say one. “Since you’ve agreed to tell me anything I want to know, I’m ready to know one thing.”
“All right.”
“I want to know about Eden,” I say.
Mona raises an eyebrow and looks at me sideways, but in the end, she nods.
“In time, I will tell you about all of the villages. As leader, you will need to know of them. Eden is a favorite of mine. It is very special.”
“How?”
Mona smiles, and a twinkle lights her eyes.
“You shall see. In time,” she says. She slips into the dining hall.
I don’t follow. I’ve never liked the dining hall with all the gawking eyes, and I’m not hungry anyhow. And for the first time since Ian left, I’m eager to return to the Pit. I have a few questions for my new mate. And somehow, I’m going to find a way for him to answer them.
Chapter 21
“Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.” Psalm 139:4
The same jailer greets me the next morning, surprised to see me back so soon, but she doesn’t say a word as she takes me to my mate.
He’s still asleep, but his eyes flash open when the jailer slams the gate, and he is as surprised to see me as she was. Confused, he lumbers into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. I wait for the jailer to move off before I speak.
“Hello.”
He stares up at me.
“I guess you’re wondering why I’ve come back already.”
He keeps his eyes on me and shrugs.
“Well, it’s not for the reason you may be thinking,” I raise a brow smiling, then shake my head at my foolish attempt at humor. “I went to see Mona last night. I wanted to ask her a few questions about you.”
His eyes turn cold at the mention of her name as I assumed they would.
“And, of course, I have no answers.”
I pause and watch his reaction. He seems to be digesting what I’ve said, or perhaps he’s still trying to wake up, I’m not certain. But finally, he crawls off the mat and kneels in the dirt across from me. With his index finger, he writes out letters. I follow his finger as he traces in the dirt.
M-E-A-N W-O-M-A-N
I stare at him in astonishment. “You can write letters?”
He just looks up at me from his squatted position while I gape with wide eyes. They teach the stock words? How to write? Why? What would be the need?
“Where did you learn this?”
He only shrugs again and looks away. I slowly kneel down beside him until we are eye level.
“What is your name?”
Without looking at me, he writes again.
J-O-H-N
“John,” I say. “It’s a good name.”
His eyes meet mine, and I smile.
“It’s nice to meet you, John.
For the first time, his expression softens. He writes again.
K-A-T-E
“Right,” I nod. “Very good.”
He keeps his head down, staring at my name. I reach out and touch his arm.
“I came back to ask you questions, and now,” I glance at the words in the dirt, “I see that you can write. This will be helpful.”
He nods.
“I would like to be your friend, John. Can we be friends?”
He smiles hesitantly and nods again.
“Good. So first, I need you to know something about me. And this may sound very strange, but—I’m—I’m not a breeder.”
His expression contorts with confusion. I shake my head and examine my fingernails.
“What I meant to say is, I am, but—” I stop short, trying to collect my thoughts. With a heavy sigh, I continue. “I made a promise to myself. And if I’m going to be coming here to see you, you need to know this.”
He doesn’t move.
“I’m obstinate, and this gets me into trouble often.”
He raises a dark eyebrow at me, still confused, so I explain.
“I don’t tend to follow the rules. I have never bred in this Pit, and I don’t plan to. Ever.”
At this declaration, his eyes change, he sets his jaw, and with a hint of satisfaction, he nods once.
“You understand this could cause trouble for you, too.”
He smiles and writes.
Y-E-S
“And this will not bother you?”
N-O
I sigh and sit back in the dirt next to him, and a kind of burden seems to lift up off my shoulders and fly away. My fear of being paired with a true mate from the stock dissipates in a cloud of invisible smoke, and I smile up at him.
“This is good.”
And I know for a time, we will be safe. I have no idea for how long, but we will cross the path when it comes. Mona has promised to check on me from time to time. I’m sure she will take more drastic measures if I fail to comply—if I fail to show signs of pregnancy—but for now, it’s enough to know John expects nothing. We’ve pledged an oath in dirt-ridden letters, and together we will manage . . . for a while.
No one supervises the breeding itself, not that I’ve seen. I’ve wondered why this is, but I’m not complaining. It appears to be a practice that Mona has never enforced. Perhaps there has been no need—not when all the women seem willing to perform their duties diligently. Perhaps I am the only one who truly should be watched. And yet, she hasn’t ordered it. This doesn’t redeem her in my mind. But at the very least, it keeps me conveniently safe.
I am grateful for it.
>--->
After this, I visit John often. Now that we’ve established the terms of our relationship, I look forward to seeing him. And day by day, our friendship grows into something full of trust and mutual understanding. John’s smiling face and big heart become a small peace for me.
“Why didn’t you come to the Pit when you turned sixteen?” I ask one day.
I sit on the floor of the cave, my back pressed against the cool rock. It’s hot today—hotter than I ever remember—and the cave is stuffy and uncomfortable. John sits against the opposite wall. The sun pours in and brightens a small spot through the gate, casting long, straight bamboo shadows.
He doesn’t move, and I’m not sure he’s heard me at first, but after a moment, he leans forward and begins to draw. Not letters this time, but pictures.
He draws several cone-shaped buildings. They look like our hogans. He draws larger squares in specific places, and judging by where he places them, I know one is the dining hall and the other is the Great Hall. But one image truly makes me understand that he depicts the Village. His finger traces out a large circle several feet away. The Pit.
I glance at him, puzzled. If he’s spent his entire life either behind the high wall in the nursery, or here, in the Pit, he shouldn’t know how the Village looks. And yet, here is proof that he does.
I focus intently as he adds the final touches to the scene he’s sketched. It is an amazingly accurate map of the Village. I’m still examining his drawing when he stands and moves closer to the gate, and he draws again—another village scene. These buildings are squares with triangular-shaped roofs—strange looking buildings I’ve never seen before. I puzzle over them as his fingers move swiftly through the dirt.
When he’s finished, he returns to his first drawing. He squats and draws a stick person in the very middle of the Pit. He looks up and points to himself.
“You,” I say.
He nods
, takes his finger, and drags a line from the small figure of himself to the drawing of the other village. He looks at me. I blink.
“You’ve been there?” I stand and examine the drawing with the strange buildings. “You’ve been to this other place?”
He scratches his head with one hand. With the other, he blinks all five fingers at me three times. And I understand.
“You went here when you were fifteen?” I point at the drawing. He nods and scratches his head again. “How is that possible?”
He bends and writes.
R-U-N A-W-A-Y
I sit down on my knees and read the words before raising shocked eyes. He’s sweating, and he wipes at his face with the back of his hand.
“You ran away to this village,” I say, almost breathlessly. I’m unbelievably stunned.
The stock live in isolation—in a designated section of the nursery—until age sixteen, under close watch of the nannies. What he is saying is impossible. And why would he run? I examine him curiously. Perhaps for the same reasons that I have for refusing to become what the Village expects. Perhaps he hears the call of a different life, too. Did their attempts to conform him fail as they have failed with me?
“How did you get away?” I ask in a careful whisper.
He only shrugs and looks at me with frustration. I get the feeling his explanation is too complicated without a voice to express it.
“How did you end up back in our village?”
His eyes cloud over at my question, and I know I’ve touched on something. He bends in the dirt and draws another figure with long hair. She has a loop of rope at her waist and a long, curved knife. Of course.
“Mean woman,” I say, and his eyes turn dark. He sighs. His shoulders sag as he saunters heavily to his mat and drops onto it.
I stare at the second village he’s drawn. It’s big, and the numerous buildings are tall and wide.
“You lived there for . . . .” I add in my head. “Two years?” I keep my eyes on the drawing. When I look, he’s holding up two fingers.
“Two years,” I confirm.
It makes sense. He’s nineteen now. He would have been seventeen when he came to the Pit. But he shakes his head and wiggles his two fingers at me. I crinkle my brows, confused.
“Two . . . months?” I suggest.
He nods.
“But—where were you the rest of the time?”
He shrugs and looks away. And I know it’s another scenario too difficult for him to explain with a missing tongue. I narrow my eyes. Mona has succeeded in silencing John forever with the perfect method for keeping a troublemaker quiet. It’s beyond cruel.
I rise from the floor and sit on the edge of his mat.
“I understand now,” I say, placing a tender hand on his arm. “You were free, even if it was for a short time. And now . . . this.”
I wave a hand, indicating his confinement, which must seem even smaller to him after tasting a world beyond our village. His eyes are sad as he stares at the floor.
“How did you escape the nursery, John? Tell me.”
My eyes plead with him, and he raises a brow and nods. He leans, smoothes out a spot of dirt, and writes: N-A-N-N-Y F-O-R-G-O-T L-O-C-K.
I nod. Not long ago, I pondered why locks were needed at all for the stock. As far as I knew then, they have no desire to leave. But here before me is an example of one who did—of one who was unable to be shaped into what Mona expects of the stock. The question is: Why? What makes him different?
“John?” He raises his eyes. “Why did you run away? What I mean is . . . I know this is a terrible place for you. It is no life. But the stock—” I stop short and cringe at the term used. “You shouldn’t feel a need to run. You were raised for this.”
He writes again: S-O-M-E-O-N-E W-A-S K-I-N-D.
I stare at the dusty letters, thinking of the woman who brought me books. I squint at him. “Did someone teach you how to read? How to write? A woman in the Village?”
His face brightens with surprise at the question, and he writes vigorously.
H-O-W D-O Y-O-U K-N-O-W-?
I shake my head with smiling eyes. “Oh my! She did the same for me!” I crease my brows, staring at the floor. “Who was she?”
He shrugs and writes again.
G-O-O-D W-O-M-A-N
I sigh, and my heart sinks. She has been dead for some time. It was Mona herself who relayed the news to me just before I moved into my hogan—that she fell ill with an infection and died shortly after. I never knew her name. Neither she nor Mona ever bothered to tell me. But she left a hole where her attention and affections had been, and I’ve never forgotten her.
I am certain Mona did not waste time telling John of her death, and I have no longing in me to give him the news myself. I change the subject.
“What is it like outside the Village?” I ask, studying his face. “Is it very different?”
He smiles.
V-E-R-Y
I nod, my eyes drifting—imagining all the magical things John may have seen—the same things Ian described, perhaps.
“I wish you could speak, John. I would love to hear of your adventures.”
He looks at me for a long time before he writes one phrase.
T-H-E W-O-R-L-D I-S B-I-G
The world is big. This I know from Ian. The world is bigger than any one of us in the Village ever dreamed. It is full of life unimaginable.
And I fear I will never see it.
Chapter 22
“Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden . . . And the Lord God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food.” Genesis 2:8-9a
And so life falls into a routine. I instinctively follow the schedule of the village, make my trips to the Pit, try my best to fit in with the others, and stay out of Mona’s way. Gratefully, I have not been the source of her anger for some time, and the other women begin to see me as simply one of them: a woman performing a duty and keeping out of trouble like an obedient villager. Only I know the truth.
Soon enough, I begin to feel as if this secret rebellion is not enough. Something is missing, and it’s more than just Ian, whom I miss terribly. In fact, I miss everything about him: his laugh, his voice, the pulsing of his heartbeat when he held my hand. But it’s something else, too. There must be more to this monotonous routine that has become my life.
The only routine I welcome is in the form of my visits to see John. These are quiet times that allow me to stay hidden away from expectations. Ironically, his cave is not the place of a breeder any longer. It’s become a shelter where we can harbor hope. And this is what we do.
Today, John is reserved, and we’ve hardly spoken, which is just as well. I’m not feeling much like carrying the brunt of the conversation. He lies on his stomach, arm hanging off the mat drawing images in the dirt, and I sit against the coolness of the cave wall, watching him lazily. The day is hot once again as if the sun has moved closer to Earth and stifled movement itself.
There is always a comfort in the silence which has nothing to do with John’s inability to speak. I’m certain that if he could talk to me with words, the quiet comfort would remain. And it is here in the solace that I long to be most days. Me. John. Apart in our thoughts, but otherwise together.
Now, John brushes away the drawings and writes a name in very large letters.
S-A-R-A-H
I crease my brows. I don’t know this name.
He stares at the letters before he reaches down and slowly traces over them again, tenderly, and I know this person must mean a great deal to him. After a moment, he draws a picture. His finger moves swiftly and precisely until the face of a girl emerges from the dust. I lean forward to see better, amazed at how detailed is his work. Her features are so life-like I can almost see the color of her eyes in my imagination. I look at him.
“You didn’t learn how to do that in our village. You couldn’t have!”
He adds the
final touches and looks up. A tear slides down his cheek, and he brushes it away quickly and stands. At the gate, he turns his back to me. My heart softens.
It isn’t a thought I haven’t had before, but today, with heat thick in the air and my mind groggy from it, the thought takes solid form: There is so much more to the stock than we are ever allowed to know. They have feelings and dreams. They have natural talents that are never fostered. They are people, and what the Village does to them is wrong. I examine his drawing. My lip quivers.
“John.”
He stands perfectly still, so I rise up and walk to him. I place my hand on his arm. He doesn’t pull away.
“Did you meet Sarah in that other village? When you ran away?”
He nods, not looking at me.
“Is she still there?”
He shakes his head, and a kind of pain distorts his face. He squeezes the bars, and something like a muted sob escapes his lips.
“Oh, John,” I whisper.
His agony runs deep. I feel the pain, and drop my eyes to the ground. The look on his face makes me think of Ian, and a small slit in my heart breaks open just a bit wider. Oh, how I miss him.
Before I know what’s happening, John tugs me into his arms, knocking the breath out of me as I fall into his thick chest. And I’m locked in a tight hug. I’m stunned for a split second, but as his heaving shoulders bounce with his silent crying, I’m filled with so much sorrow for him. Something about this Sarah has left him broken, and without another moment’s hesitation, I wrap my arms tightly around his waist and let him cry himself out.
After a long time, he lets go and eases himself down against the wall. His eyes are puffy, but he smiles at me through them and writes.
T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U
I sit beside him and take his hand. We are quiet. After a moment, I take a chance and break the silence.
“Did you go to any other villages?”
He nods.
“There are villages everywhere, aren’t there?” I say, remembering Ian’s words from so many months ago.
He looks at me now, and he answers with a smile.
“The village you drew? What is it called?” I ask.
