His figure is stark against the white of the wall and behind him the Primitive Oath lurks bold,
‘I believe that the Primitive Elect are God’s chosen elite sent to rule over me and I submit myself to the Primitive Way. I will accept its laws and the Rule for Living. I will accept its punishments when I do wrong and I will inform on all wrongdoers. I will learn and live by the Primitive Way and abandon all other knowledge. I denounce all other religions. The Primitive Way is the ONLY way. The Primitive Way is God’s way. Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect.’
Emett’s desperately muffled cough is the only sound in the room as we wait for him to begin. Glowering and confident in his dominance, disgust etched across his face, he clears his throat and makes the formal greeting.
“Thanks be to the Primitive Elect.” His eyes scan us, trying to catch any flicker of dissent. “Whom God has sent to guide us along the right path.” The stiffly starched white ruff shivers about his neck. “We are forever in their gratitude. Praise be to the Primitive Elect.”
“Thanks be to God and the Primitive Elect,” the room makes the formal reply.
“Today’s reading is from Book 2, Chapter 3,” he says as he opens ‘The Book of All Knowledge’ and begins to read.
Drowning out the droning of his voice and hate-filled message in the silence of the room takes all my effort. I despise having to listen to the dreary tales of the Primitive Fathers and their insidious ‘Rule for Living’. I don’t buy into their rules, telling us what we are allowed to believe, what we have to say when we get up, before we wash, eat, see each other, and the constant Assemblies breaking into our day, controlling where we go.
The Watcher’s black moustache moves like a poisonous snake as he reads from ‘The Book’. A scar runs from the corner of his mouth across his cheek and into his hair, giving him a permanent sneering grimace. I’ve never hated anyone more fiercely. I clench my fists, take a deep breath, and push down my need to run through the crowd and fling open the heavy School Room doors.
Assembly ends and we all spill out into the grey morning light, sucking in the fresh air, our relieved sighs dancing in white clouds around us.
“Meriall!” Pascha calls.
With him is Ish, his walnut brown eyes creased with his perpetual grin. He seems to possess the ability to always find a smile and both boys are bright in shared relief after the drear of the School Room.
“Don’t look so serious Merry,” Pascha scolds. “It’s time for an adventure!”
“Oh yes?” I say with exaggerated interest, rolling my eyes.
“Yep!” Pascha replies upbeat. “Ish here knows where we might be able to get some medicine for Emett.” He gives a quick nod to Ish and blows on his cupped hands before rubbing them fiercely together.
“Where?” I ask, instantly hopeful and my mind flits to all the places that he could be talking about.
“Some houses about an hour away,” Pascha explains and Ish nods, his brown eyes gleaming. Both seem agitated, shuffling from one foot to the other.
“They’re deserted and haven’t been emptied yet,” Ish adds, tucking his hands into the pockets of his khaki waxed jacket.
“After all this time!” I exclaim. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“Well where are they?” I ask impatient, zipping my jacket up the last inch to lock out the cold that is seeping down my neck as we stand.
“About five miles north,” he replies, the white mist of frozen words billowing about his face.
“We’ll make it back in time for Assembly if we leave now,” Pascha adds. “Are you in?” he asks, impatient to be off.
“It’s a long-shot, but if the village hasn’t been picked over there may be other stuff there too,” I say with excitement. “But hell, yes! Let’s go.”
Finding a house like that is rare these days and I start to think of all the other precious stuff we might find like tinned or preserved food, rope, spades and maybe even some shoes and clothes that haven’t rotted.
“What are you lot plotting?” Jey asks, tugging at her long plait of red hair as she walks towards us.
Ria, Ish’s sister, walks with her. Tall and slender, she is almost an exact replica of her brother, but lithe where he is muscular. They share the same walnut brown eyes, latte skin, irrepressible smile, and chestnut hair that sits as a cloud of close ringlets. Ish and Ria are two of my oldest friends and two of my favourite people in the world. My mood is high and I greet Ria with a quick and loving hug whilst smiling at Jey.
“I can tell you’re excited Merry! What’s going on?” Jey asks, green eyes alive with friendly curiosity.
“We’re going to try to find something to help Emett,” I say with barely suppressed, hope-tinged, excitement. “There’s a village about five miles away.”
I don’t need to explain why we need medicine; we can all see how Emett’s starting to fade.
“Let’s get our bags and go now,” I add, urging them to action.
Chapter Three
The houses Ish found are to the north and as we walk away from our village a cold, grey light is spreading across the sky. My rucksack is slung low across my back and I’ve tightened the straps at the front because it’s empty and sits oddly on my shoulders. It’s the largest one I’ve been able to find and is probably too big for me, but I want to bring back as much as I can carry; useful stuff that we need like knives, rope, candles, shoes, and food. I’m hungry, as always, and my mind drifts into eating the food that we might find. My stomach clenches and growls in response. I take a deep breath, look out across the moors and catch up with the boys. Talking to Ish about the village will help push away thoughts of food.
“I found them a couple of months ago but this is the first time I’ve been able to go back,” Ish replies to my questioning, undoing the zip of his khaki jacket a little as his body warms with exertion. “There’s about five houses, all deserted. I didn’t see signs of anyone living there. They must have been empty for years ‘cause you can’t even get to some of the doors and windows.”
I am curious about why the people left and Collection Day is never far from my mind.
“Where do you think they went? Do you think they were … collected?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was only us they collected.”
There’s an edge to his voice and I know what he means by ‘us’. The Primitives don’t want the little kids and they don’t want the adults either because the ones that are left are too old. It’s just older kids, teenagers like us, they take.
“Maybe they were desperate and had to leave or ran away before they could be collected,” I suggest. “Or, they could’ve run out of food and thought going to the towns was a good idea?”
“Merry! Quit banging on. I don’t care why they’re not there. I don’t want to think about it,” Ish snaps, pulling at the straps of his black rucksack in annoyance.
I am taken aback by his anger yet understand it and don’t challenge him. I want to talk about it, want to talk about what’s going to happen to us because it’s a big deal and because, in truth, I am scared and don’t want to ignore that fear any more. I want to face it. I bury it for now though and we both walk quietly, deep in thought. I remember the sight of the wrecked towns beneath the moors across the hills from us. Not many survived the bombings and those who did ended up being captured by the Primitives or escaped to villages like ours. Either way, the end result is pretty much the same kind of prison. My anger rises and my pace quickens, working through the feeling, pushing it out of my body with each stride.
My step is steady and sure over the rocky outcrops that jut randomly from the short grass that covers this part of the hill. It’s steep though and my thighs start to burn from the effort of keeping my balance. I keep my place pretty much up at the front with Pascha and Ish. Jey and Ria are not far behind. I want them to stay close.
“Hey, catch up!” I shout back at them.
Ria looks up and smiles, the burnt orange
of her jumper brightening her pretty face. She tugs at Jey and they both start running towards us, chests heaving and white dragon’s breath billowing in misty clouds. The sun is brightening, although the cold air of autumn is sharp.
“Can we stop for a minute?” Jey pleads.
She’s smiling but looks pale despite the brightness on her freckled cheeks. I am still smarting from Ish’s harsh words and suddenly annoyed that she’s here.
“No, we need to keep moving. We won’t have enough time otherwise.” A flicker of a frown and then she’s smiling again. I touch her arm gently. “Come on, let’s catch up with the boys,” I say, remorseful for being sharp with her, but wanting her to be safe.
Finally, the steepness gives way to a gentle slope and we side-step to the flat and race across to the wall separating the field from the road that will lead us to the hamlet. Even as I run, I sense the quiet and vastness of the moors. They are black and huge in the distance and although they’re crossed and looped with the grey lines of winding roads they are like a picture from a book: static. Everything about me is still. The field we are running through is empty. It should be full of chewed and grassy hummocks bitten low by ewes and lambs. Instead, the unbitten grass of summer is browning and bowed, waiting for the rot of winter, and squashes beneath my feet as I run.
There’s laughter as Pascha and Ish compete to be the first to jump over the wall. Both are tall, both strong, their muscles shaped from years of digging, climbing and running over the moors and through the woodlands. Pascha is ahead by a fraction and the first to grab a stone atop the wall and swing his legs over. There’s nothing in it really, a second perhaps, and I watch with a pang of jealousy as they both hunch over laughing, catching their breath, steadying themselves with hands on knees and each other’s shoulders in solidarity. A brotherhood I cannot be part of.
I push myself harder, running faster, wanting to be just as strong as they are. My heart beats hard in my chest and the muscles of my thighs burn as I clamp my hand onto a large flat stone on top of the wall. Circlets of yellowy green lichen are rough under my fingertips. I grab hold and pull myself up. Unable to swing my legs out to power over like Ish and Pascha, but surefooted and strong, I quickly pull myself up to the top of the wall, push my feet into the gaps between the stones, and launch myself over to the grass below, only a few seconds after the boys. Pascha looks up as I land and nods his head in recognition of my effort. I notice how beautiful the contours of his cheekbones are. Suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, I am thankful when he’s distracted by Jey and Ria. He turns to challenge them to jump the wall and seconds later we’re all at the roadside.
We walk until we reach crossed roads where an old painted sign, a relic from decades before the wars, leans as though tired of standing. Much of the paint has peeled off, the wood beneath disintegrating, falling away in strips along the grain. The lettering is barely legible although I manage to make out the name on the rotting arrow – ‘HAWDALE 1 MILE’.
The final stretch of road to the village is steep and winds down between close hills, narrowing to a single track. Either side of us trees grow above the moss covered stone walls that rise to hold back the earth as the lane sinks deeper into the hillside. The sun is brightening in the sky, but the lane takes us back into a darker space where only a thinly dappled light filters through the reddening leaves onto our backs. Walking deeper down and within the hill, the creeping edge of anxiety strokes across me; this place is unknown and I don’t like the thickening dark where sunlight can’t get through. We move silently, downwards, each of us holding tight to our thoughts, until finally the bank of trees begins to thin into grassy and sunlit ground. I quicken my step and begin to run. Behind me is the scuff of boots on gritty tarmac as the others start running too. Within seconds, we burst out into the brightness where, before us, surrounded by woodlands and steep hillsides, sits the hamlet of Hawdale.
Ish brushes past me and shouts, “Look! Look. We’re here,” his voice ecstatic.
“That’s pretty obvious” is Pascha’s wry comeback.
I count the houses. A horseshoe of five stone built cottages backed by steep hillsides. In the distance a few grey farmhouses sit littered on the higher parts of the hills. The houses in the towns are dead, bombed and broken; here they’re complete, waiting to be filled with shouting and laughter and it feels odd to want to break in.
The first house is nearly hidden from the front by trees and bushes that have grown high above the garden wall and the grassed lawn is matted with years of growth and decay. If there was a path to the front door it’s now grown over with grasses and thistles. Cars block the driveway, their windows green-rimmed, their seats thick with mould. The track beneath my feet is gouged with deep ruts left by huge tyres. It must have been cold and wet the last time whatever made these tracks came this way. The second house sits sideways to the road, its windows facing into a cobbled yard surrounded by outbuildings. Weeds and saplings grow between the cobbles and the ragged remains of a wash day, tatters that sit weathered and mouldering to green, are held onto a fraying line by blackened wooden pegs. The way to its door is clearer than the first,
“We should try this one. It looks easier to get into.”
“Ok.” Pascha agrees. “You go with Ish and I’ll go with the girls to the houses further up.”
“Thanks Pascha. I really didn’t want to go into one on my own,” Ria says with relief.
“Yeh, they’re creepy!” Jey adds with a theatrical shudder.
“Wimps!” I shout in mock disgust.
“Come on Merry, let’s get cracking!” Ish cajoles. Even he has a hint of anxiety.
“I know! I know. We don’t want to be late for Assembly,” I say, annoyed at the perpetual constraints on our time.
The worry about being late is constant, but I make an effort to shrug it off, walk up the cobbled yard and try the door. It opens easily. The sun shines again onto the darkened hallway and although the air is damp and musty, the overlarge petals of fuchsia pink and aqua flowers leap brightly about the walls. A child’s ride-on car sits parked at the skirting. This was once a home full of life.
To the right is the kitchen, and on the table the remains of a meal, half-eaten; four plates with knives and forks strewn across them are stuck with a rotten and dried out mess. The debris from the preparation of this last supper still sits on the kitchen worktops. A glass tumbler lays broken and shattered where it fell. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. What happened here? Ish looks in over my shoulder.
“That’s creepy!”
I nod in agreement.
“We don’t have much time. If you check for stuff upstairs, I’ll check downstairs,” I suggest, trying to shake off my nerves as my skin begins to crawl with unease.
The high cupboards are empty of the hoped for tins and jars of food; perhaps cleared out by whoever was here last. In the lower cupboards there is nothing but a patch of dried slime and the shrivelled remains of a few potatoes and carrots, tiny, black and wrinkled versions of their former selves. The drawers do hold treasure though and I root through them grabbing three small kitchen knives, a knife sharpener, some wooden spoons and a ball of string. I smile at my hoard and stuff it into my rucksack.
Ish comes back down the stairs carrying an armful of stuff. “I’ve got bedsheets and soap. There’s more upstairs and a wardrobe full of clothes.”
I take the stairs two at a time, pushing down the uneasy feeling I have; this was someone’s home and I shouldn’t be here taking their stuff. I move quickly though and see that there are three bedrooms and a bathroom. I dismiss the two smaller bedrooms and head straight for the bathroom to check the cupboard above the sink for medicine. There is nothing but a small, white plastic container with ‘Co-codamol’ written on the label and the expiry date ‘15.11.2063’—waste even before the wars began. I’m not going to find anything that can help Emett. In consolation, I take the bars of soap that Ish has left for me and grab two towels that sit folded in t
he cupboard.
A bed of rusting metal dominates the third and largest bedroom, its curling frame bubbling beneath white paint. An ancient pine wardrobe fills the alcove next to the chimney breast, the central pitted mirror reflecting tiny pinked roses sprayed across the room’s peeling walls. The bed is unmade, dust-greyed duvet thrown back, moulding pillows still dented where heads last slept. A wooden linen chest sits at the foot of the bed, its lid of blown and sun-faded yellow roses sprinkled with rusted flakes of white paint. The creeping unease is stronger now, hurrying me to open the wardrobe and look for anything of use. Stale air wafts across my face as I pull the door to me. Inside, jackets and dresses hang to one side and stacks of neatly folded clothes are shelved on the other. The fabric is cold but not mildewed and I stuff two jumpers and three pairs of jeans into my rucksack. From the linen box, I grab two bedsheets then move quickly to the chest of drawers next to the window. Framed photos rock, then crash to the floor as I struggle with the stiffened drawers.
The figure of a man, dressed for climbing, a rope slung across his shoulder smiles up at me from the floor. Other figures are watching too; a woman, her eyes bright, laughs as she holds a glass, half-full, up to me; a pair of faded blue eyes, framed by curling grey-white hair, looks at me with love as she holds a baby, swaddled and sleeping in the crook of her arm; and a toddler shrieks at me in delight as his red wellies splash in a puddle, muddy water spraying up around him caught in eternal motion. I look away from their smiling eyes, I don’t want to see whose clothes I am stealing and stack the frames neatly on the windowsill next to the chest then crouch down to stuff the knickers, socks and other findings into my rucksack.
As I stand again something odd in the wilting grass of the back garden catches my attention through the bedroom window. I wipe at the haze of dust sticking to the glass, clearing my view. The ‘something’ is a heap which could be a pile of old and outgrown clothes someone has dumped, but the angle of the shoes, skewed and jutting out into the cold air, makes fear clench at my belly. The hairs on my neck begin to creep and sting and a coldness drains through me as I realise why the shoes jut out and make the heap of discarded clothes seem odd. The heap is made of bodies and, from the smallness of the shoes, some of them are children. My eyes shut tight but the faces in the photos sit in the blackness behind my eyes. I don’t want to think about the pile—can’t think about it—and turn away from the window, sling the rucksack over my shoulder and run downstairs calling to Ish to follow me. In the sun, I breathe with relief although the brightness and warmth of the day can’t soften the creeping sense of horror.
Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) Page 2
