Tonight, as always, before mother sits to table, she checks that the doors and windows are closed and no one is hanging about outside. We hold hands across the table and mother asks me to say a prayer before we eat. We do this before each evening meal, a small act of rebellion that seems to make the food taste better somehow. I take a quick breath and Jey and mother squeeze my hands, letting me know that we’re in this together. It’s such a simple thing—saying a prayer of thankfulness before we eat, but it’s not the one we’re supposed to say, the one the Elect have taught us to say, the only one we are allowed to say. I recite the prayer, anxious, giddy and victorious all at the same time. Rebelling in this small way feels good even though I don’t have the courage to speak it above a whisper. It’s our way of saying you can’t own us; you can’t have our souls.
“Girls, I’m going to light the lamp,” Mother says in an unnecessary whisper.
“Are you sure?” Jey asks tensely.
“Not everything you need to know is in their ‘Book’,” she replies with determination. “Meriall, lock the doors please. Jey, lock the windows and draw the curtains. Make sure the shutters are closed too.” I understand Jey’s worry, I feel it too, but I am also excited.
As Mother reaches for the lamp, lighting the wick with a splinter of wood she’s lit from the fire pit, I lock the front and back doors, checking and double checking that I’ve pushed the iron bolt across firmly. I help Jey to close the wooden shutters across the windows in the living room and kitchen, the only downstairs rooms, apart from the cellar, in our small cottage. Once the shutters are bolted we close the curtains. They are heavy; doubled up with back to back pairs they keep it warm and private. Finally, Jey pulls the thick curtain across the door and we’re ready; as cosy and safe as we’ll ever be here.
The years of anguish and starvation may have taken their toll on my mother’s looks but she’s still strong and quick. She easily slips between the side of the hot range and the brickwork of the inglenook and reaches behind, pulling out a parcel wrapped in an old cotton tablecloth. She sits with the bundle on her knee.
“Jey, bring the lamp.”
Jey lifts the lamp and stands over Mother, shining light on the bundle. She opens it as though handling a newborn, unwrapping the swaddling clothes to see its precious beauty. Inside are five books that Mother managed to hide before they took the rest. She hadn’t had time to choose which books to save; just grabbed a handful from the bookcase, wrapped them in a clean tablecloth and stuffed them behind the range.
“Knowledge is power girls,” she says, as she does every time we sit to read. “One day things will change and we have to be prepared.”
We sit at the kitchen table listening to her talk of life before the Great Death and the ruin it brought and then read to each other in a whisper, knowing that we’re breaking the ‘Rule’, knowing that if we’re caught we will be punished.
As I read, I become aware of a noise in the background
“Shh” Jey hisses and grabs my forearm.
Her fingers dig into my muscle and I look up from the page, instantly fearful. Jey’s eyes are wide and suddenly terrified. I hear the noise too; the thud of boots, lots of boots, on tarmac and small stones scuttling across the ground and crunching underfoot. We look at each other in a horrified and frozen silence. We’ve heard that thudding before—the march of the Enforcers; the ‘police force’ of the Primitive Elect.
Mother frantically begins to wrap the books in the cloth, but her hands are shaking so badly that she drops one to the floor. I reach down and thrust it into her lap, pull over the corners of the cloth, cover the books and grab them from her. I stumble off my chair and reach around the stove. The metal is hot and the burning heat filters through my top. If my skin touches the metal it will blister. I slide my body as close to the brick hearth as I can and shove the books back into their hiding place. Pulling back, the roughness of the bricks snags my top, I falter, teeter to the left, and catch the edge of the stove, scorching the skin across my cheek. The pain is instant, searing, but ignored in my desperation.
“Meriall, hurry!”
The books are hidden again but the fear remains. Mother blows out the lamp and Jey rushes to the window, peers out from behind the faded curtain, and turns with a look of terror across her face. “Are they coming for us?”
“They can’t be. We’ve been so careful,” my mother whispers. “Come away from the window,” she pleads.
Jey has to see though and I join her—better to face the terror. If they come up our path we can at least get out at the back of the house through the cellar window. It’s small, but hidden from outside and would give us crucial minutes to escape and make a run for the trees.
“Do you think someone knows about the books?” Jey asks in a terrified whisper.
“Shh! Jey, never say it out loud,” Mother scolds. “We’ve been so careful. I’m sure no one knows.”
She stands behind Jey, arm over her thin shoulders pulling her close, trying to soothe her. We need to stay calm.
“Maybe someone has seen us and told the Watcher?” she exclaims in a hushed and terrified whisper.
“No, they can’t have,” I reply.
The fear in Jey’s voice is painful to me, and I remember Jennet sneaking away from his house, but I am not going to share what I saw. We are all scared enough already and mother is right, we have been careful. Jennet couldn’t have said anything about us to the Watcher. Could she?
“Stop worrying. It can’t be for us they’ve come.”
I take a step back into the room towards the cellar door as the gang of Primitive thugs gets closer to our house and the thud of their boots grows louder. It can’t be us they’ve come for. It can’t! The hair at my temples and the nape of my neck prickles in fear and my chest feels so tight that I can barely breathe. As the thud, thud, thud reaches our house I hold my breath and grab the iron handle of the cellar door, gripping it tight and pushing my feet down hard on the stone floor to stop myself moving. The urge to run is enormous. We stare at each other. Frozen with terror. Eyes wide with fear.
The thudding passes. They’re not coming to our house.
Relief fills the room. Mother sags and staggers forward, falling against the heavy kitchen table to steady herself. Jey rushes to her and they cling together. I want that comfort too, but first I have to find out where the Enforcers are going. I grab my jacket and woollen hat from the peg next to the door.
“Meriall, what are you doing?” Mother asks in annoyed surprise.
“Don’t go out! She can’t go out. Don’t let her,” Jey pleads. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to see where they’re going,” I reply. “Who they’re going for.”
As I pull up the zip of my leather jacket there’s a knock at the door. It’s Pascha. His cheeks flushed, the greenness of his eyes brightened with determination.
“You’re coming,” he nods, understanding my need to find out, wanting me with him.
After the warmth of the kitchen, the cold of the late autumn evening slaps at my face, stinging my burnt cheek, creeping down my bare neck. I regret not wrapping up warmer, but there is no time to waste and I run after Pascha as he makes his way up the dark lane. Only the moon shines to help brighten the blackness, the glow from the oil lamps escaping from the cottage windows too weak to impact the dark. Taut faces peer out of open doors and braver folk step into front gardens, craning their necks to peer up the lane, following the Enforcers with their eyes, as far as they dare. As we work our way up the steep lane, clinging to the shadows, the soft thud of closing doors and the dull slam of sliding bolts ring out into the night. Ahead of us the gang of thugs disappears into the dark.
“They’re turning into The Green.” Pascha whispers.
The village green is a wide expanse of brown and wilting grass circled by stone cottages. As we reach the top of the lane, Pascha motions for me to stop and we lean into the shadows at the corner of the last house and watch as the ma
rch of the Enforcers halts at the Old Post Office.
I grab Pascha’s arm and squeeze it hard. “It’s Ish! That’s Ish and Ria’s house. What can they want with them?”
I move forward. Pascha blocks me and holds tight to my arm. “We have to stay here,” he insists.
I know he’s right so stand behind him and stare out into the darkness of The Green where the group of men stand. One, the leader, is talking to the others and pointing at the door. Does Ish know they’re outside? His house is bigger than ours and the kitchen, where his family spend the cold evenings, is at the back. I doubt they’ve heard the warning of stamping feet.
“If I go round the back I can warn them, tell them to run!” I plead.
But there’s no time. The men walk up to the front door and the leader tries the handle. It is locked fast but that doesn’t stop him. He beckons to his men to move back, raises his leg and aims a vicious kick at the door. It is old and rattles with the force but doesn’t break. Another man steps forward and rams the door, shoulder first. The wooden frame cracks and splinters. Another kick and the door swings open, slamming into the inner wall and the men disappear into the house.
I want to run inside too, but force myself to stand my ground. Making myself known would be dangerous. A woman’s scream and men’s shouts ring out into the night and an Enforcer steps backwards over the threshold, dragging the lifeless body of Maz, Ish’s father out of the house and onto The Green. Ish is forced out next, hands bound, pushed through the door by another Primitive thug. More screaming and Noor, their mother, is pushed and kicked out onto The Green. She struggles and kicks out against the Enforcer, catching him on the shin. He retaliates with a brutal punch to her stomach. She doubles over and drops to the floor. I want to run to her, but know that I’d be kicked to the floor for my efforts.
“There’s one more—a girl. Find her.”
Ria!
Two of the thugs run back into the house. The sound of boots pounding on the stairs and doors being slammed, rings out into the night. The house has two staircases, an attic and a cellar. Perhaps she can hide from them and escape?
Minutes stretch. I wait in the cold and dark, barely daring to breathe, praying fervently that she won’t be found. About The Green, doors slam shut and curtains are drawn. Are they too afraid even to watch? The urge to run out and wrench the Enforcers away from my friends is becoming unbearable.
Ria screams, fear choking her voice, and then the heavy thud of something being dragged down the stairs bangs out into the night.
She’s there!
Thick arms grip around her chest, pulling her out of the house. Her screams only stop when the leader wraps his fingers around her thick braid of chestnut hair and yanks hard. She cries out in pain and he whispers in her ear. The sound of blood pumping strong in my head consumes me.
“Ria!” The name erupts from my belly as a guttural scream.
I break free of Pascha and launch my loathing and desperation at the thugs on The Green. I want to kill them.
A hand grabs the collar of my jacket and I am pulled back violently and crash heavily to the ground, pounding the wet grass with my thigh, ribs and shoulder. Winded, I am pinned down by the weight of Pascha’s body on top of me.
Chapter Six
“Meriall! It’s me, Pascha. You have to stay out of it. We can’t help them like this,” he says, close to my face, his hand over my mouth to stop me shouting out.
I don’t struggle. He’s right. I have to stay in control and nod to him to let him know that I’ll be quiet. He moves his hand away, pulls me up to my feet, grabs my arm and hauls me towards the safety of the dark. “We have to stay hidden,” he insists.
I crouch down and press myself against the hard darkness of a cottage wall and wait for the Enforcers to finish their work. Pascha crouches behind me, his hand on my shoulder, pressing down as if he’s afraid I will run out to them. It would be dangerous I know; they’re strong and would easily knock me to the ground, worse, they may take me to the Watcher, but every inch of me still wants to run and jump on them and kick and scratch and beat them with my fists. As they march past us, my friends lurch in the middle of the black figures, pushed and prodded to keep them moving. Pascha must feel my anger because he pushes down on my shoulder just a little more, leans into me and whispers. “Steady”.
His touch is calming even amidst my rage and I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let his strength fill me until the anger within subsides a little and I can think more clearly.
I reach up and cover his hand with my fingers and gently press them in reassurance. His hand feels warm and big and strong under my cold fingers and through all the turmoil tiny shocks of yearning tingle in my belly and I am hyper-aware of every inch of skin beneath my touch. I turn my head to speak and his cheek brushes against mine. It only touches for the merest second but for that moment I am consumed by my need for him. Shame immediately overwhelms me and I quickly pull my cheek away and stand up. How can I feel like this when Ish and Ria are being taken!
“Get back down. They’ll see us,” Pascha whispers at me with concern.
He seems oblivious to the lightning of our touch. He doesn’t feel the way I do! I crouch down again, angry that I’ve let my emotions get the better of me. I need to stay in control. The huddle of black figures walks away from The Green and down the lane to the Watcher’s house.
“Come on, we can go now,” I say, impatient.
“Yes, but we can’t let them see us,” he replies, his command not to be ignored.
We make our way across the lane to the corner house and wait at the entrance to The Green until they are again out of sight before we move forward. At my cottage, there’s a clear view to the Watcher’s house where streaks of electric light shine out of its shuttered windows into the darkness of the moonlit night. The houses on the lane are blind and silent, curtains and shutters a shield from this night, but cloth and wood can’t block out the guilt or the fear.
We wait, crouching down in the dark shadow of the garden wall until the Enforcers are inside, and then run towards the School House. At the back of the house is an old root cellar the Watcher uses as the holding cell. We’ll be able to catch at least a glimpse of Ish and Ria there. As we get to the house the front door opens, flooding the pathway with light. A figure steps out. We drop down behind the wall. The door closes and footsteps clat on the stone slabs. I grab the blocks of the wall and pull myself up to look at the figure.
“Jennet!” The word pushes its way through my teeth before I can stop it.
My fingers grip the hard stone. I press the tips down and dig my nails into the lichen but it is Jennet I want to dig them into.
“Who’s there?” Jennet hisses into the night.
She must have heard me say her name.
I crouch low behind the wall, the heels of my moccasin boots squashing down into the water-sodden bank of earth that sits at its base. I squeeze myself tight, arms around my thighs and shins, head to the side and pressed down into my knees, teeth clenched. The rage feels like fire in my fingers, but I stay tight and listen to Jennet’s shoes scratching on the stone slabs as she turns to look for clues.
“Who’s there?” she asks with an angry rasp that starts in her throat and pushes out through gritted teeth.
I remain totally still, a coiled spring, squatting in the dark. She moves forward up the path and I hear the creak of hinges and the clack of iron as the gate is pulled open and swings shut. Her footsteps sound in the lane. Suddenly, a stooped and thin figure is scuttling away from me. That’s when I snap. I free my legs, push my hands and feet hard into the wet grass and spring forward like a prey-crazed dog, hurtling forward before Pascha has time to stop me. He calls my name, but his voice, hushed and insistent, is barely on the edge of my awareness. I ignore him and instead hurl myself at Jennet as she turns startled at the stampede behind her. There is no chance for escape and I grab her collar with both hands and push her to the ground.
“What have you done?” I demand.
I cannot hold back my anger and pull her forward, my hands clenched around the fabric of her coat, then slam her back down to the ground.
“What have you done?” I repeat.
Her head bangs down on the grass.
“Ughh! Get off me!” she shouts, squirming beneath my hold. “I’ve done nothing. What are you talking-?”
“Ish and Ria! The Watcher has them. They were beaten. Dragged from their house. I know it was you.”
“They …” She starts to speak and again denies she’s had a part in it.
“You’re one of them aren’t you! Aren’t you! You are an informer!” I seethe.
“I’m not. I’ve done nothing wrong,” she insists.
“How could you do it Jennet?” I spit her name. “You and me—we go back to the beginning. Don’t you remember how we got here? What we had to go through to get here—together?”
Her eyes flinch and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Her face is stony. I try again.
“I’ve seen you Jennet, come in and out of the Watcher’s house and you’re here now. You’ve no business in there. What were you doing?”
“I … Nothing. I’ve done nothing,” she insists.
I don’t believe her lies.
“We’ve seen you Jennet.” Pascha joins in the accusation, his voice rough with anger.
I grab Jennet’s jaw and squeeze her mouth tight and again bang her head to the ground.
“Tell me Jennet. What have you done?”
She growls in pain and I squeeze harder.
“Tell me!”
Finally, she breaks.
Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) Page 4
