Reckoning (7 page)

The people of Martindale have lined the streets again but this time they are leading me towards the train station. The morning is bright and crisp but the arms around me keep me warm as I see the dark uniforms of the Kingsmen at the end of the street. It hadn't crossed my mind before, but I wonder what would happen if I turned and ran, heading towards the gully and keeping going until my legs couldn't move any longer. It's not a rational thought, I know. This is a moment of pride and achievement but something about the Kingsmen's presence doesn't feel right. They are unmoving as I approach, simply waiting by one of the carriages at a small set of steps leading up to the open door.

I turn to my mother and thank her for everything she has done for me. After that, I crouch, making sure not to get the dress dirty, and tell Colt to be good. I say that I hope I'll be able to return at some point but we both know it won't happen. I don't belong to them any longer. Our words will never be enough because what can you say?

I look around for Opie and Imp but they are not there. Before I can peer deeper into the swarm of people, someone in a suit grips my upper arm. He asks how I am, as if I can say anything other than excited, then he turns to the crowd and asks them if they're proud of me. Their cheering is appreciated and, as I look out over the sea of faces, I see the blonde heads of Opie and his brothers. He's not looking at me, instead staring sideways along the length of the train, holding Imp's hand. It is Imp's eyes that make me crack, giving everyone else what they want. He stares at me full of sadness that we will no longer torment each other with our childish games. Colt is my brother but Imp may as well be too. He catches my eye for a moment and then I feel the lump in my throat again. The man asks something about my dress but I'm not even listening, instead I'm blinking quickly, trying to suppress the tears that feel so close. I turn away from the crowds and walk into the train without answering.

Inside, I don't even look at the surroundings, instead resting my hands on the cool glass on the far side, swallowing, blinking, and trying to tell myself I'm an adult now. A Kingsman tells me it is going to be a long day – we are the furthest north so have to stop through the Realm to pick up everyone else but I am not really listening. I almost ask if I can go back for my pot of jam but he says there will be food and drink for the journey. Then he tells me there are five minutes before we leave and that I can spend that time with whoever I wish.

The obvious choice is my mum but we've said everything we have to and I don't want to see her cry again. I tell him Opie's name and start to describe him but he already knows. ‘That tall blonde kid, yes?' he asks and I realise how distinctive Opie is, even among a crowd.

A moment later and he is in front of me. The compartment is large with rows of seats lining the sides but we stand, watching each other. He seems taller and thicker, his large arms by his side, his hair messy as if he has just got up.

‘Hello,' I say as I feel myself smiling.

‘Hello.'

We continue to stare at each other before his arms twitch and suddenly I am within them, feeling them around me, the bristle of his chin rubbing the top of my head. We don't speak but I feel a tingle along my spine as his fingers cup my head and slide along the curves of my back.

It feels like mere seconds before people are in the carriage, telling us it is time, that there is a schedule and a long day.

Before we move apart I whisper in Opie's ear, telling him to look after Colt and my mother, even though I already know he will. He nods, smiles and winks – and then, as quickly as he arrived, he is gone.

The compartment door slides shut and the train begins to move as everyone files out again. The green of Martindale is soon the grey of wilderness and then I realise, finally, that my childhood is over.

8

Once every two weeks, a steam train chugs through Martindale dropping off supplies. It carries a limited number of passengers to the city and back as well but people are not encouraged to move around. It is an expensive and rare privilege. I have only travelled by train twice, only once officially. On the other occasion Opie and I sneaked aboard, hiding among the bags of grain and piles of fruit in one of the cabins at the back. We were young and silly and luckily didn't get caught; the potential penalty for being found is something not worth thinking about.

Both journeys were uncomfortable, yet somehow thrilling too. The ability to be somewhere so different to my village, within such a short space of time, was something almost too hard to get my head around. Mum said travelling was something she took for granted as a child. For those my age, unless we walk, it is the only way of getting outside Martindale. Perhaps that's why the gully became so important to me?

This train is completely different to the service ones that go through Martindale. Instead of the noise and the heat, it glides effortlessly and silently along the tracks to a degree that, if it wasn't for the windows, I wouldn't even know we were moving. We have the other Offerings to pick up and stop at a town a little further south to collect an Elite. The crowds are thicker than they were in Martindale; masses of people are pointing, waving and cheering.

After the Elite says his goodbyes, we sit together in silence. I try to stop myself peering at the grey-black hue of his thinkwatch, with the faint outline of a crown on it. He takes some fruit from the selection of food left for us but neither of us knows what to say to the other. He stares longingly out of the window and I wonder if he has left someone behind. I realise we are perhaps the only people who can understand each other, the mixed feelings of being chosen to serve our King, leaving behind everything and everyone we have ever known.

Although we never hear anything official about what happens to our Offerings, there are always rumours. Someone's cousin knows somebody who lives in a city who heard from a Kingsman and so on. Of course there is no way of knowing for sure but it is sometimes fun to speculate. I've heard about an Offering who is supposedly now captain of the King's army and another who is in charge of research and technology. Some have apparently been sent abroad to marry, to help rebuild the alliances smashed down by years of war. I wonder if that is to be my fate and begin to feel self-conscious in my dress.

We zigzag across the Realm but most of our pick-ups come from the cities where the crowds are beyond anything I have ever seen. Thousands have gathered to wave their Offerings goodbye as the carriage begins to fill up.

The two Elite girls come from the same place. One is wearing a beautiful silver dress and seems friendly, introducing herself as Jela. She has long, straight blonde hair and is naturally pretty, her high cheekbones framing large brown eyes that almost stare through you. The other, Pietra, says hello, but goes to sit at the back of the carriage. Her brown hair is pinned up and she is wearing a blue velvet dress covered with glittering jewels. She sits watching me with her arms crossed, as if weighing me up, but she says little else. Jela goes to sit with her.

Soon after, two boys – a Member and an Inter, dressed in a blue that matches his thinkwatch – step on together at another point. This is our year to provide a male Trog, who we collect from our final stop along with the last male Elite. These last two Offerings could not be more different. The Elite reminds me of Opie because of his build and hair colour – he is tall and handsome with a square, solid jaw and huge broad shoulders but his eyes lack the kindness that Opie's have. Our Trog is thin and short, his thighs barely as wide as the Elite's arms. His hair is brown and patchy and, despite us being the same age, he reminds me of Imp because of the dimples in his cheeks and the way he smiles.

They step onto the train together and instantly separate. The Elite heads towards the food, as the Trog, rubbing the front of his yellow thinkwatch, looks around at us all, before shuffling into the corner and sitting by himself. I notice a few of the others glancing in his direction but nobody says anything. The four Elites have drifted towards each other and are standing near the food table, eating and smiling.

We are all here now and ready to head to Windsor: four Elites, myself and another Member, an Inter and the Trog. Three girls and five boys. By the time we get to the castle and join with the Offerings from the other Realms, there will be thirty of us; fifteen boys and fifteen girls.

As I am adding up the numbers in my head, I catch the Trog's eye and he smiles nervously before looking away. I glance towards the Elites and the newest one, who looks a little like Opie, stares me up and down before indicating for me to come over with a flick of his head.

For me there is no decision to make as I cross the carriage and sit next to the Trog instead. I feel the eyes of the others on me as I shake his hand and ask his name.

‘Wray,' he tells me with the same nervous smile as before, still playing with his watch front. He doesn't want to meet my eyes but I don't mind as I tell him my name.

‘Is that like your hair?' he asks, pointing to my silver streak.

‘Exactly.'

Wray asks where I come from but has, perhaps not surprisingly, never heard of Martindale. He tells me about life in the city, where he and his mother live in a partially rebuilt tower block. He tells me his mum lost the use of her legs a few years ago and never leaves the flat, which left him to look after her. Although school is held more often in the city, Wray has not been in years. He doesn't say it but, from what I can tell, it looks as if he gives most of his rations to his mother. He says his younger sister will now be looking after her and that although he is sad and worried to be leaving, his mum told him the previous evening that his selection was the proudest moment of her life. He gulps hard, his throat bobbing as he speaks.

I ask if he wants some food but he says no, even though I can see the hunger in his eyes. I tell him I'll get him something anyway and cross to the food table.

The bigger male Elite is eyeing me again. He is talking with the others and I overhear one of them calling him ‘Rush'. As I look across the food, I try to ignore him until he actually speaks, his voice deep and gravelly and any similarity to Opie immediately lost.

‘What are you doing hanging around with
him?
' Rush asks, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

‘His name is Wray,' I say, choosing two fruit buns from a tray. They are still slightly warm and I greedily smear butter across them.

‘He's a Trog,' Rush replies firmly, as the girl in the blue dress sniggers.

I spot a small plate of jam at the back and smile, thinking of my mother and Colt and the half-pot I've left for them at the back of the cupboard.

‘He comes from the same place you do,' I reply, not looking behind me.

As I spread a generous helping of jam, I hear more laughing. ‘He's nothing to do with me,' Rush sneers. ‘He's nothing at all.'

‘We're all Offerings,' I say, putting the buns on a plate and turning around to face him. ‘We've all been chosen and we're all the same. You're no better or worse than any of us.'

I see Rush's face contort in anger, his top lip curling into a snarl. His eyebrow is twitching as he glances to Pietra, who is standing next to him, as if to confirm he has heard correctly. ‘All the same?' he asks disbelievingly. ‘What are you? A Member? Why are you wasting your time with the likes of him? You should be with us.'

Pietra nods approvingly, her eyes flickering beyond me towards Wray.

I ignore them and return to the corner of the carriage, sitting next to Wray and handing him the bun. He must have heard what was being said but doesn't rise to it, taking the food and biting into it hungrily.

‘Have you ever had one of these?' I ask.

His reply is muffled as he tries to speak with his mouth full but he shakes his head. We both laugh as we eat. Wray gets through his entire bun before I am halfway done, so I let him finish mine off.

We watch the scenery flashing past the window; factories with smoke belching from the chimneys are interspersed with patches of grass and small towns, villages and hamlets. Most of all, we see rubble: piles of bricks, tiles, wood and masonry – all abandoned years before and never returned to.

‘I never realised there was so much carnage out here,' I say as Wray points to what looks as if it was once a village that has been destroyed.

‘It's a lot like this where I live,' he replies. ‘Some places have been patched together but mainly we live in what's left.'

I think about the house I won't be returning to and, although it's small, it is complete and provides adequate shelter. ‘Why don't they rebuild these places properly?' I ask.

Wray doesn't reply instantly, instead we both focus on the final, flattened remnants of the village. ‘If they don't repair things, it keeps us all remembering what might happen if we go to war again,' he eventually says.

I think about his words and realise he is right. What better way to stop people rising up than by leaving them a permanent reminder of what happened the last time they did? For now, the King is popular but perhaps that won't always be the case.

I want to ask Wray what happened at his Reckoning but it feels too personal a question. Maybe the Reckoning sensed that he wasn't ready to leave home and wanted to continue looking after his mother, which is why it made him a Trog? It is hard to know exactly how it works, but he certainly isn't stupid.

As we continue to watch through the window, I hear Rush's voice behind us, shouting and sneering. ‘Oi, Trogboy, come over here.'

Wray's body tenses slightly but neither of us turns. Aside from the air swishing past the train, there is silence for a few seconds before his voice sounds again. ‘I'm talking to you, Trog-boy.'

I catch Wray's eyes as he glances sideways at me. They are full of fright and I know this is the life he has led for years: intimidation and fear. I take his hand in mine and he is shaking. Remnants of some fruit fizzes past our heads and crashes into the window, the pulp and juice running down the glass as I realise it was meant for Wray's head.