The Special Ones (2 page)
There’s a long silence until, with a start, I remember that there’s another question I’m expected to ask. The most important one, even though I already know the answer.
‘Does Lucille remember who she is?’
In my peripheral vision, I see Harry shake his head. ‘I would say she’s completely forgotten everything.’
‘Awareness is sometimes slow to dawn,’ I recite. ‘After all, it’s been a long time since Lucille’s old form left us. It’s not surprising that she’s forgotten a few things.’
Harry nods. ‘The renewal process can leave the mind temporarily confused,’ he says. Somehow Harry can make the stiffest of his mandatory phrases sound natural, even comforting. ‘Once she is safe at home with us, she will soon remember.’
I suddenly hear Felicity’s voice, wafting in on the hot northerly wind. She’s out in the garden, singing a jumbled song. ‘Merrily we roll along, on a cold and frosty morning.’ Most songs are forbidden in here, of course, and I am not even allowed to hum – but the Felicity is expected to sing nursery rhymes. For some reason, though, this particular Felicity always gets the words wrong. It makes me uneasy. It’s the sort of thing
he
could easily become very upset about.
The song stops and a plaintive voice calls out. ‘Is Harry home yet?’
Harry gives a low laugh and I smile too. The Felicities are always so sweet. It’s hard not to get attached.
‘Yeah, I’m home, Flick,’ Harry calls. ‘I’ll come right out.’ He turns to me. I keep my eyes firmly on the ground, although the urge to look at him is always strongest when he’s about to leave. ‘I’ll take her down to the farm and get some ingredients for dinner. Today’s word was …?’
‘
Rejoice
.’
It worries me that Harry so often forgets the guiding word, as it is supposed to shape everything we do, think and feel each day. In our remembering books it says that the guiding words form the basis of the teachings for our followers; that
he
watches us always, recording everything we do and say, and then the most inspirational – the most Special – moments of our lives are made into short films from which our followers can learn.
When I received the guiding word this morning, there wasn’t much to rejoice about. But the news about the Lucille has changed things.
‘
Rejoice
– that means meat, if you ask me,’ says Harry thoughtfully. ‘No chance of getting a rabbit at this time of day, though. How about a chicken?’
I hesitate. We only have five chickens left and their eggs are very valuable. I should say no. Esther is supposed to restrain this kind of extravagance and it’s really too hot for roasting, anyway. But the idea of eating fresh meat rather than the boiled potatoes and green sauce I’d been planning is too tempting to resist. Plus there’s the added thrill of saying yes to Harry.
‘I’ll make some mash to go with it,’ I say and look at Harry just long enough to see his eyes crinkling at the corners.
‘Perfect.’ He strides off, whistling, and I feel a pang, knowing I’ll be alone in here again.
‘Make sure she wears her hat,’ I call after him. The Felicity in the photograph has very pale skin. ‘And don’t let her on that peach tree.’
I don’t remember which Felicity broke the tree-climbing rule – the first, or the second? – but I’ll never forget her punishment. The image of that tiny figure, lashed to the peach tree for an entire day, crying out for water and forgiveness, still flashes into my mind sometimes.
I doubt Harry will forget it, either. He was the one who had to tie her there in the first place.
I hear Felicity squeal with joy as Harry appears outside and I picture her flinging herself on him, like it’s been months since she saw him and not just a few hours. I’m glad she can do this. A child her age needs physical contact – hugs, kisses, tickles – but Esther is not allowed to touch the other Special Ones, and the Lucilles just don’t do that sort of thing.
In the kitchen I catch sight of them through the window, Felicity holding Harry’s hand as they make their way past the gum trees. A little while later a squawking, flapping noise rises on the wind, gaining rapidly in tempo and intensity until it suddenly cuts short.
Harry’s news has filled me with optimism. There is still a lot to do, but I feel strong and capable, energised despite the heat. Soon there will be four Special Ones back here again. This means another person to share the work, to speak with the followers, and to keep
him
happy.
Part of me remains tense, though, because what lies ahead is daunting. Planning for a kidnapping is never easy, even when you’ve done it as many times as I have.
In our remembering books, it’s called ‘collection’. It’s described in a way that makes the whole process sound very straightforward – as if all we’re doing is bringing someone back to where they belong. What you’d do with anything that’s gone missing and has turned up in the wrong place. Like a puppy that’s wandered into a neighbour’s yard, for instance. Or an umbrella left on a train.
As I go about my afternoon chores, I start a mental list of what needs to be done. The most pressing thing is to start preparing Felicity for what to expect. She has only been with us for six months – in her
present form
– and hasn’t gone through a collection before, other than her own and that’s completely different. It’s vital that everyone reacts the correct way when a Special One rejoins the group.
I’m peeling potatoes at the kitchen table when Harry and Felicity return late in the afternoon. Felicity proudly carries the wicker basket filled with freshly harvested items from the kitchen garden: radishes, baby carrots, silverbeet. The scent of outside clings to them.
Harry triumphantly holds up the headless chicken. ‘Dinner!’ Blood drips onto the stone floor.
‘It’s Martha,’ Felicity informs me. ‘She hardly laid any eggs so it’s fair, really.’
‘Thank you.’ I take the carcass and hang it up over a pan to let it drain with some string Harry gives me. He always seems to have a piece or two in his pocket. We had chickens in the backyard of our old house in the country, but they were pets. The idea of eating them would’ve horrified me. Now I find myself thinking of all the uses this small chicken can be put to. The feathers can plump up our pillows. The fat can be used for cooking. The bones will be boiled to make stock for soup, and once they’re removed and dried I’ll grind them into a powder for my medicines. Nothing is wasted here.
Our followers will enjoy this, no doubt, if the scene makes it into one of the teaching films.
Your life seems so authentic, so sustainable and honest
, the followers write to me. I never correct them, of course.
Martha’s blood splashes rhythmically into the pan. Funny to think that I used to be fussy about my food. No gristle, no fat, nothing that looked too much like the creature it came from. One lean winter in here and all that changed. Now I eat everything. Eels from the dam, frogs, grubs. Once I even fried up a snake that Harry killed on the verandah steps. It’s surprising how anything can taste good, if you’re hungry enough.
Outside the window, the leaves of the eucalypts shimmer silver-white in the late afternoon sun. Felicity slides into one of the heavy wooden chairs that Harry made the first year I was here, and watches as I sort through the vegetables. The lettuces are caterpillar-holed but the radishes are red and perfect. Radishes always grow well here for some reason.
‘Any news?’ Felicity asks me. She knows that Harry has been searching for the Lucille, but she isn’t allowed to speak to him about it. Questions of this nature must be directed to Esther alone.
I take a breath and plaster on a smile, making sure I’m turned towards the main camera on the wall. ‘Yes. Good news!’
Felicity sits up straight. ‘Lucille’s coming back?’
‘Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad. Really,
really
glad,’ says Felicity, wrapping herself in her arms.
The Felicities and the Lucilles are generally not very close – the age gap is too big for them to be friends, and the Lucilles are not exactly the motherly type – but I understand why Felicity is pleased. It feels unbalanced here when one of us is missing. Like a table minus a leg.
Now my smile is genuine. ‘Me too.’
I send Felicity to fill a bucket with water from the well. ‘It’s a bit murky,’ she says apologetically when she brings it into the kitchen. She’s right – the water is muddy, a sign the well’s getting low. It’s concerning, but now is not the time to dwell on it.
I plunge the vegetables into the water and begin to wash them. ‘Now, Felicity,’ I say. ‘You know that Lucille may seem a little confused when she first returns.’
‘Will she?’ says Felicity. ‘Why?’
A small black beetle loses its grip on a leaf and begins swimming in desperate circles. I fish it out and deposit it on the windowsill. It’s nice to be able to save a life once in a while.
Meanwhile, Harry picks up his cue. ‘Remember the last time Lucille was renewed, Esther?’ he says. ‘She didn’t remember any of our names when she came back – even her own!’ He shakes his head as if this were simply a funny anecdote.
Felicity’s face scrunches. ‘I don’t remember Lucille going away before. Do you mean before I got here?’
Her mistake makes me freeze, but Felicity doesn’t realise she’s slipped up. Even worse, I see another question forming on her lips. Harry lunges at her and she screams as he scoops her up and tickles her with a furious intensity, making her small body squirm.
‘Oh, Flick, you’re such a joker!’ Harry says loudly. ‘Pretending you don’t remember the last time Lucille was renewed. And pretending that you haven’t
always
been here!’
Felicity wriggles away from Harry and gives him a reproachful look. ‘That’s more ouchy than tickly, Harry.’
But she doesn’t say anything more. Either she’s forgotten the topic or she’s remembered that
before
is a subject she should avoid.
When the vegetables are clean, I reward her with the biggest and reddest of the radishes, and then begin to slice. My favourite knife is the one Harry gave me last year, on the first anniversary of my arrival. He carved the handle himself, so touching it is almost like touching him.
I glance at Felicity to find her watching me again, the radish still in her hand. She gives me a smile, the same one she uses when we’re being verified. The sort you put on when you know someone is watching you. I give her the same smile.
I wish I could reach over and stroke her hair, reassure her that everything will be fine. But I can’t, and instead I find myself noticing the things about her that need attention. There’s a rip at the hem of her pinafore, and her dark roots are starting to show again. My insides pinch. More things to do.
‘We all feel a little out of sorts without our Lucille,’ I say, speaking clearly so the mics can pick up every word. ‘That’s why it’s such good news that she’ll return soon.’
Felicity makes tiny mouse-like marks in the white flesh of the radish. ‘When will she be here?’ she asks.
‘Tomorrow,’ says Harry, as if there’s no possibility of anything going wrong. Maybe it’s genuinely how he feels. I wish I did.
‘I’m going to make up a song for her,’ Felicity announces. ‘A welcome home song.’
‘What a lovely idea! That will make her feel glad to be back,’ I say, then take the opportunity to sneak in another little warning. ‘And before we know it – maybe in just a week or two – Lucille will be back to her old self again.’
For a second I catch Harry’s eyes, and I’m pretty sure I see in them the same thing I’m thinking.
Let’s hope so. For everyone’s sake.
For the rest of the evening, my mind splits off in two directions. One path leads me through Esther’s usual routine. Cooking dinner. Clearing up, and putting the bones of Martha the chicken (who was delicious) in a pot of seasoned water to make stock. Getting Felicity into bed as quickly as possible so that she can snare a few hours’ sleep before evening chat begins.
But the other path is an imaginary trip through tomorrow and the days that will follow, the steps defined by prior experience. Do I have the necessary supplies to correct the new Lucille’s appearance? Will her clothing fit, and if not do I have what I need to make the alterations? And through all of this I’m steeling myself, trying to become impervious to the pain and stress that are heading our way.
But maybe I’m worrying unnecessarily. Maybe this time won’t be so difficult. The first two collections were the worst, back before I’d realised there was a difference between what our remembering books said would happen and what I saw happen. Before I’d properly learned to control myself and hide how I really feel.
An unwanted memory flashes into my mind of home. Of my exasperated father, telling me, ‘You have to stop all this crying!’ when I appeared for breakfast with my eyes red and swollen. It had been several months since we’d moved to the city by then, and my parents must have decided I’d had enough time to adjust.
‘You can’t be so soft and sensitive about everything,’ my mum said. ‘You’ll give off victim vibes.’ I suppose they were worried I’d get bullied, though you don’t get bullied if no-one notices you’re there.
The shadow girl. That’s how I felt in that huge school. How can you be so completely alone when you’re surrounded by hundreds of other people? Somehow I managed it. The girls at my new school seemed only to talk about music I’d never heard of, and fashions I had no interest in. One glance at me and they knew I’d have nothing to contribute.
I sat by myself in class, walked alone down endless corridors, spent breaks in the library, developing a taste for books about looming environmental disasters. I knew how the polar icecaps felt. I too was melting, becoming a little less solid each day.
But I’m not like that now. These days I’m a girl of stone.
