Watershed (12 page)

Without the wind and away from the Citadel and the Sea, the land settled quiet at night, real still, like the world was holding its breath ready for the next sigh. Occasionally you'd hear the scurry of a lizard and the whine of gnats and mosquitoes, but that was about it.

It was the noise that woke me, unmistakeable and loud: running water, dribbling and spurting. I wasn't used to travelling with anyone else, except when I returned with Garrick's bound and gagged gifts, and I'd become accustomed to my own noise, and my own quiet.

It wasn't yet light, and I figured I'd been asleep for less than an hour, which wasn't nearly enough. I tensed but lay still, fully alert, keeping my breathing even and spaced while I adjusted to the sound, focusing on it. Inching one hand up, lifting the edge of the hood, I saw Alex hunched over, squatting low to the ground, his back to me. His cloak bunched around his widespread feet and there was that hollow, wet noise. Right where I'd left the pot.

My first reaction was irritation that he'd woken me, chosen to take a piss right there instead of moving away or round the other side of the rock. Then anger, that he was mucking around with my pot rather than using his own. He'd been given the chance earlier and turned it down, and now he was disturbing my sleep with all his messing around in the dark. And finally, when it dawned, there was shock.

But I didn't say anything and I didn't move, just watched through slitted eyes as he finished and rose, pulling up his trousers, careful to keep his boots away from the pot. Which was a good thing, coz if he knocked it over I'd kill him, orders or not. Bending again, he replaced the lid, leaving it as he'd found it and then, with a quick glance at me, shuffled back to his pack and curled up again on the ground. Like it had never happened.

On my side, I stared across at the pot, the round jar sitting neat and precise on the uneven ground. I hoped the tube was still in place, but I didn't dare get up to check, because I didn't want to give away that I'd seen what I had. Lying still until I was as sure as I could be that Alex slept, I rolled onto my back, tucked both hands behind my head, and stared at the sky.

The stars all used to have names, or numbers at least. Tagged, just like us. Every one of them known, every distance to Earth calculated carefully, like it was important, as though knowing would somehow give us an edge – a hope that should disaster come knocking we just might have somewhere else to go. Perhaps there were some people around who still knew a few of the names, who could point up and tell you the constellations. And maybe there were still some books which'd survived and were now kept in the Tower that might've told us what was what. Except so few people could read, and the rest didn't care.

But whatever they were called, the stars were still beautiful, thousands of pricks of light that winked on and off; the bigger ones silvery, others tinged red by the dust that hung in the air, many so
faint they disappeared as soon as you tried to focus on them. Under the stars you knew your place. And it was small.

As I stared, I thought about what I'd just seen. I'd planned on sticking to the road for another night or two before cutting east, but after watching Alex I realised it was time to change it up. Time to start finding out what I needed to know. Away from any risk of being stumbled upon by other travellers or, worse, another Guard actually doing his job.

Yeah, sometime soon Alex and I were going to have a little talk and I was going to find out why they'd sent, not a boy to do a man's work, but a girl.

And, sharing my secret, I smiled at the stars, suddenly feeling less small.

Excerpt ~ Letter #7

 

It's strange, the things we remember; more strange, what we choose to forget. I can remember the tangy juice of an orange and the crunch of an apple, the cool cream of cow's milk, the thin taste of hot tea, the thick aroma of brewed coffee, the velvet slide of warm chocolate on my tongue. I remember the sweet smell of flowers, the leathery musk of a book, the richness of newly cut grass. I remember the sleekness of a cat's fur, and the sound of a dog barking, I remember the fall of leaves, the cold of winter and the warm green of spring. I remember the bright morning your mother was born, and the long evening shadow when she died. And I can remember the exact moment when I realised I loved your grandfather; the first time we touched, and our first kiss. All these things I remember, Jeremiah, but I can't remember the last time I ever felt truly safe, or the cool of rain upon my face.

The diesel-powered lights didn't run for long; no sooner had torches and lamps been lit and set into niches in the walls than the droning sputtered and cut out, the light in the tunnel dimming further to shadowy flickers. Whether it was to save fuel or simply to spare everyone from the heady fumes, Sarah didn't know. In those first few hours, and over the days that followed, they were told very little, every question parried with a shrug, a small, grim smile and that inevitable, increasingly annoying,
you'll see.

Banjo was pronounced unfit to travel; he'd have to wait for the next party, though when that might be no one said. In pain, confined to a lumpy mat on the floor of a cubicle, he didn't protest this decision and, bidding him farewell, Sarah almost wished that she too had been injured, just so she could rest alongside him. The time allotted hadn't been long enough and every muscle quaked at the thought of the journey ahead, her heart an added weight in her chest.

They were each given a cloak – more of a crude poncho, Sarah thought, slipping her head through one hole in the dark square of material and her arms through two others – a soft carrier filled with water, and a large wrapped package. Food, they were told, but they were to eat sparingly; there was no guarantee they'd get a chance to supplement it along the way. Sarah opened hers to see more of what they'd been given on the other side of the pass: dried crusts, and a thick wad of stiff meat strips. Another bundle contained curled, dried flesh, pale and yellowed; a rancid smell, and the sharp tang of salt and fish filled her nostrils. She stowed everything into the pack before shouldering it; Daniel would carry Jeremiah. But their weapons – Jon's gun that had become Banjo's,
Daniel's and Cutler's rifles, the blades they'd all carried – weren't returned, and no others were proffered. Not necessary, Burns said when Daniel asked, before leading them to the far end of the tunnel where five others waited; three looked, if not as tired as Sarah felt, at least as confused; the other two bore the same quiet, grim demeanour as Burns. One carried a large rifle with some kind of scope, a thick belt of ammunition slung across his chest; the other held a crossbow, and a heavy short blade hung from his belt; again Sarah wondered where they'd found such weapons, and how many more they had.

There was no sign of the lieutenant. Would Burns be taking them after all? Cutler asked, and Sarah felt a stab of hope. Burns was certainly odd, with his half-answers and his half-face, but at least he was a known entity. Nope, was his easy reply; his place was at the garrison.

Sarah hadn't been able work out the hierarchy: was there one and, if so, who was in charge? Was it Burns, or someone else? In the time she'd been there, she'd heard only of the young lieutenant, except it'd been made clear that this wasn't his place; he'd come from somewhere else, hadn't he? From the wall, whatever that might be.

No names were exchanged with the other five; there was no time for such niceties. Burns nodded to one of his men, a small door in the huge gate was opened, and they were pushed out into the still-warm open air. The sun had fallen behind the mound of the tunnel, enough to cast the narrow gorge in which they found themselves into deep shadow, but the long strip of sky overhead, yellowing with late light, provided a backdrop for the silhouettes of men Sarah could see keeping watch atop the craggy cliffs. Below, the old road continued on before twisting around a chiselled outcrop and disappearing. It seemed they'd made no progress at all, she thought, despairing. They'd simply walked through a door from one pass into another.
You still got a way to go.

But no, she realised, as she peered around. This was more than just a road leading nowhere. Here there was life and noise beyond the grunt of the sea and the whistle of the wind. There were smells and shouts, calls and even laughter. There were little wooden huts, makeshift lean-tos hugging the rock face; one glowed orange, and she heard the comforting rhythmic clang of beating metal. A forge, she thought, and remembered the lieutenant and his rough swords. To their right a crevice burrowed into the cliff, letting in a little more light; above it, a short bridge swung in the wind, and below that a long post – wood or metal, she couldn't tell – jutted out and away, over the churning water below. Two men circled a big wheel, hauling on it and winching something from below; a pulley of some sort, she realised and at her question, Burns nodded and said, shortly: Bringin' up water. C'mon.

Still leading, he moved them along briskly, but while they gazed at everything their curiosity wasn't returned, everyone too busy to pay them any attention. They skirted a couple of high-walled pens set in the middle of the road, three-sided and open to the south but roofless, like the cubicles inside the tunnel; the brief glimpse she was afforded into their dark interiors added to their mystery: they were filled with assorted tubs and barrels, and reeked of excrement. Again, Burns's explanation was singular: Grain. Was that possible, Sarah wondered, without bees or water or any nourishing soil? Then she remembered the stale tasteless bread, and felt her hopes flicker again. If these people were able to achieve all this, in such a remote and inhospitable outpost, then how much better must the Citadel be? She felt Daniel's excitement too, in the sudden squeeze of his hand.

And there, off to the side of the road, leaning on rough-hewn railings, stood the man who'd deliver them to that place. His back was to them as he talked to another beside him – a smaller, slighter figure – and though he seemed at ease he bore a strange alertness, a sixth-sense awareness of everything, and everyone.
Sarah could see movement beyond the rails, small bodies butting and bleating and any doubt that the meat they'd been given was indeed goat vanished. Even more marvellous was the rangy, long-legged creature in the midst of the small herd, and Sarah felt a sudden relief; she hadn't imagined it after all. In front of her was proof of her sanity: a camel.

The lieutenant turned before Burns could call out, and his companion did the same. Sarah saw a face planed with shadows, older than the lieutenant's, but just as fine. The woman was cloaked as they were, though hers was belted; a long, unsheathed dagger hung off one hip. When the lieutenant muttered something, she smiled, and he returned it; a private joke. Then, a quick kiss to her lips and his forehead pressed to hers in a moment of intimacy that anyone watching might recognise, before he pulled away and walked across to meet them. She didn't follow.

Everyone ready? the lieutenant asked. When no one replied, he said, Well, I guess we'll find out, won't we?

Instructions were brief and to the point: they'd walk single file, the ones with kids in the middle; anyone who couldn't keep up would be left behind; no questions and no arguments, his word was law until they got to the Citadel. Did they understand? They all nodded. Then the lieutenant smiled again, and added, perhaps not as reassuringly as he might've supposed: Don't worry, I haven't failed anyone yet.

Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, he turned back to Burns, suddenly serious.

Keep her safe, he said, and make sure she gets everything she needs. Until I can return for her.

Without hesitation, and just as serious, Burns replied: With my life.

Make sure of it, the lieutenant said. It was a grim exchange, the pledge sealed with a grasp of hands, before the lieutenant marched off, leaving the rest of them to scurry behind, drifting
into the disorganised single file he'd demanded, the two armed men following last of all.

Sarah looked back, suddenly afraid and yearning for the strange safety the garrison offered. The woman had moved to stand beside Burns; he'd thrown an arm over her shoulders as though to comfort, and her hand was raised in salute, but the lieutenant didn't turn to acknowledge their farewell before reaching the bend in the road and disappearing from sight.

Burns was right; they did get there. Eventually. Though the way was harder than any of them had imagined, and the company unnervingly silent. When the lieutenant spoke, it was to his men – their exchanges brief and curt and restricted to the journey ahead – while the two groups kept their distance. Ridiculous, Sarah thought, considering their proximity. Perhaps their reticence to mix with each other, to find out where each had come from and how they'd made it, to swap any stories of hardship and woe, stemmed from disparate mateship, perhaps it was a result of trust having to be earned rather than given. Or perhaps, Sarah reasoned, they were simply adopting the mannerisms of their guides. But whatever the reason, aside from the odd muttering when they settled for a few hours' rest, or gathered themselves again for the next leg, they learned little about the other three men. Not even Jeremiah and Ethan sparked anyone's curiosity; the lieutenant and the two scouts showed absolutely no interest. Like Burns, on the approach to the pass, it was as though the children didn't exist, more a hindrance than anything else. The only time their presence was acknowledged was if one of them cried; then the lieutenant would turn and scowl, his forehead furrowing, his eyes darkening further, and Daniel and Sarah and Rachel would hurry to hush any noise.

Sarah never saw the lieutenant sleep; if he did, it was after she'd succumbed herself, and she'd later wake to find him crouched off
to the side of the huddled bodies, always alert and ever watchful. He kept his face covered, as they all did, and it was hard to recall his handsomeness, or that smile; only his eyes were visible, and they were shadowed. Watching him in those quiet moments, as he spun one of his knives point-down on his palm – not a nervous habit, she sensed, but one to keep his hands as busy as his mind – she wondered what plagued his thoughts: the woman he'd left at the garrison, the Citadel ahead, or was he simply concerned with what lay between? Whatever it was, and however strangely he behaved, one thing had become clear: they'd never have got as far as they had without him.

They'd soon left the road, not south towards the coast, as Sarah had hoped, but climbing east into the surrounding mountains, still following the trail of old bitumen that snaked below but keeping to the highest ground. Daniel had quietly questioned this decision to Sarah. Surely it would be safer down in the valley? he muttered, and she couldn't help agreeing. Up here, knocked about by the wind and treading an unsteady path over rocks, relying on the hands of others to pull and to hold, often swaying at the very edge of a precipice, she felt exposed, in full view of anything, or anyone, that might've been waiting. But the lieutenant's experience soon proved them wrong.

It had been a particularly trying day. Jeremiah was fretful, not liking the heat and the wind, and Sarah couldn't blame him. At one point one of the men from the other group had slipped, his foot turning on a rock, and he slid a few metres before a scout grabbed at him and hauled him back up; the skin of his leg was badly torn but the ankle was sound, and any hope for rest was thwarted when the lieutenant insisted they push on. After another few hours, the pace considerably slower and their leader's impatience clearly growing, they found themselves following the slow descent of the ridge. Grateful for the downhill scramble into a shallow basin but disheartened by the height of the next climb,
all were relieved when he called a sudden halt; motioning with his hand, he crouched low and the rest of them followed suit, more clumsily. Ignoring their grumbles, the lieutenant stared intently at the road. At least down there the ground would've been flat, Sarah thought morosely, as she tried to balance on spikes of pocked rock. Then she heard it: the deep echo of a chanting mob below, feet pounding the road like drums, raising an unmistakeable din and a cloud of dust. And, forgetting her earlier longing, Sarah felt only relief that they weren't down there too, trapped between the walls of rock, with no escape.

The lieutenant flashed his hands a few times to the scouts behind, signifying numbers, Sarah guessed, though she had no idea how he'd been able to estimate from such a distance, and the message was radioed back to the garrison: Get ready, company was coming. When he was sure the last of the mob had passed, the lieutenant rose again and, without a word, led the way up the incline. None of them dared protest.

Later, after they'd eaten and drunk, and before they all settled on the hard ground, curled together for added warmth, Sarah watched him walk around to squat beside the injured man; she held her breath when he pulled his knife, remembering his warning about not keeping up – even the man flinched – but the lieutenant just smiled, slit the trouser leg, cleaned the wound with some of his own water, and bandaged it roughly with strips of material. Then, shrugging off any thanks with a quick nod, he returned to his usual place away from the rest of them, and his usual practice of keeping watch.

With Jeremiah tucked against her chest, and Daniel at her back, Sarah slept well that night.