Watershed (16 page)

But there'd been harsher realities to face than even the disappearance of books: the council had finally devised their better system for allocating water, and even Sarah had protested that. Not that it'd done anyone any good; the brand on her inner wrist was long healed, but every night she still pressed the tiny puckered scar at the back of her neck, feeling for the little disc she knew was there but never finding it, and she'd shiver, remembering her fear when the guards had strapped her down and those black-robed men had cut into her, and her anger when they'd done the same to Jeremiah. Because didn't she understand, as well as Daniel did, how those men had learned just where to cut and how to safely insert the tag? And wasn't she as aware as he that neither brand nor disc had anything to do with water?

Just as hard to fathom were the rapid changes they kept making to the common laws, not an evolution as kinks were smoothed and better ways found, but a deterioration, a suppression of thought and belief and will. After everything she'd seen, Sarah had no love for any god, or for their followers, but the prohibition of every ancient symbol, the punishment of any who still dared to believe in the grace of the cross or the strength of the crescent or the deliverance of the star, had assumed its own zealousness. Even the worship of sand or sea, of mountain or dead tree, too-late reverence owed to an angry Earth, was discouraged. There was only the council, high in their tower, and all vengeance would be theirs. But it was hard to know which was worse: the reckoning of an afterlife, or the retribution in this one. Because it wasn't faith that had killed, it was the abuse of it; it wasn't knowledge that had driven the world to violence, it was ignorance.

Still, things weren't all bad. They were alive, Jeremiah was thriving and, most importantly, they weren't still out
there
, nomads in a no-man's land. So, no, she wasn't prepared to lose hope, and she wasn't ready to give in to Daniel's growing despair.
So she would force a smile, kiss his cheek and say: Give it time. It's still early days. And, as she knew he would, he'd swallow his concerns and allow her every victory. Yes, he would echo. Still early days.

But it wasn't the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

Sarah stroked Jeremiah's hair. They should talk about it, she said, but he continued to stare up at the wooden ceiling, silent and still. Dust drifted from the cracks above to salt his face, making him blink, but he made no move to shield his eyes.

She wished he hadn't seen what had happened. If she could turn back the clock, she would. Why had he disappeared like that? she asked him. Why had he wriggled out of her grasp as she'd tried to pull him away? she asked herself.

Another long silence, before he turned his head to stare at her. What had the man done, the one the guard killed? What had he done wrong?

Sarah sighed and shook her head. She didn't know. Maybe something bad. Most likely, she thought, nothing at all. Because it seemed there no longer needed to be a reason to grind another man into the ground, and everyone was afraid.

No one helped him, Jeremiah accused.

No, replied Sarah.

I hate the guards, he said, and his small voice grew large with anger:
I hate them!

This from the boy who played at being a guard with his friends, using sticks for swords, banging and fighting and beating at one another, like all the boys did. Sarah thought that perhaps he might not play those games any more, and that wasn't such a bad thing. She tried to make sense of it for him, explaining that not all the guards could be like that; there had to be some good ones.

Like the ones who tagged us? he said, his voice low and even. But surely he was too young for sarcasm? Sarah didn't know how to answer, and stroked his hair again.

Would he like her to sing his song? she asked softly. Sing him to sleep? It had always worked before, a happy song to chase away any bad dreams. But Jeremiah rolled over, away from her. No, he said. Not any more.

Because it wasn't the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

Sarah stared at her friend, aghast, uncertain what to say. Her mind raced, but her mouth couldn't seem to utter any of the words; when it finally did, the ones it issued were the ones she'd hoped to stifle: Jeremiah will be devastated.

Rachel nodded. I know, she said. Ethan too. But we think there'll be better opportunities in the settlement. More choices for me. Easier for Cutler to establish himself. Then, glancing down, pressing a hand to the swell of her belly, she added: And I don't want him to be born here. Not in this place.

Him? Sarah said, almost smiling. You don't know that.

No, replied Rachel. But I hope it.

Yes, Sarah thought. Didn't everyone hope for a boy now? And didn't Rachel understand about suffering, perhaps better than any of them? Her work with the sick and the dying and the injured and the mutilated was a thankless and bloody task and here, in this overcrowded place, a seemingly endless one. So yes, Sarah could understand her motivation. But it didn't mean she had to agree with it.

How could she be sure the settlement would be any better than the Citadel? she asked. Didn't the same laws apply? Weren't there still guards and restrictions and curfews and punishments? And what of the raiders? Most had been killed or driven off, but not all.
A tiny settlement was no match for an army of savages; look what had happened to the garrison, she insisted, resorting to hearsay that she herself had not believed.

Rachel smiled, a little sad. I'm sorry, she said. And Sarah was right. Maybe they were making a mistake, but there had to be something better than this. Somewhere.

Where? Sarah wondered. Not in the settlements. Not in the port. Not anywhere, trapped as they were between mountain and sea.

When? she asked, and quailed when Rachel gripped her hand.

Tomorrow. They were sorry not to have told her before, but they'd thought it best not to upset anyone. Especially Ethan.

Yes, she nodded, accepting the inevitable, not wanting to make this any more difficult than it was. And the sudden ache in her heart, which deepened and spread as cold as the sea, was at odds with the hot sting of tears. She'd miss her, she said. They all would.

Standing quickly, Rachel hugged her and said: And I you. Thank you, Sarah. For everything.

Except that was wrong too, because it was Sarah who should've been thanking Rachel. For her companionship, her loyalty, her support, for delivering Jeremiah and for keeping him alive. It was she who deserved praise.

A last squeeze, and Sarah let her go. Rachel paused in the doorway: I'll let you tell Jeremiah. Maybe after we're gone?

Yes, Sarah replied.
I'll break his heart for you. I owe you that, at least.

Jeremiah scowled and drew up his knees, hugging them. Sometimes the strength of his will delighted Sarah, other times it shocked her. She'd seen it before, this adamant refusal to acknowledge what he didn't want to be made to understand, but this time was different. This time it wasn't his view of the world that had been upset, but his feelings, rooted deep in the shared bond of
a mother's milk and the overcoming of terrible odds. Hadn't he called Ethan his brother, on more than one occasion? Hadn't the two of them shared adventures and trouble, rewards and punishments, praise and blame?

She tried again. He'd see Ethan again. She was sure of it. This wasn't the end, and meanwhile Jeremiah could make new friends, she said, brightly. Just like Ethan would.

Jeremiah scowled deeper at that but still said nothing, and Sarah sighed. No, it wasn't going well. Learning of betrayal never did.

When she pressed his cheek, Jeremiah winced and jerked away. The skin was a little torn and already blueing, but she was relieved to feel the bone whole. She sponged his face with some boiled seawater and washed his split lip, lifting it to check his gums; one front tooth was gone, the other broken. But he'd been ready to lose them anyway. Hopefully he'd manage to keep his new ones for longer.

When he spoke, the lisp was pronounced: Wathn't my fault. Diethel made me. Sarah couldn't help smiling, until she realised she shouldn't. It was no laughing matter and, straight-faced, she told him what she must, that he shouldn't blame others, that the decision to climb the wall had been his, and no one else's.

Jeremiah frowned, mutinous. Everyone elth wath doing it, he told her.

Everyone else.
His new friends, just as she'd told him he'd find, though he didn't appear to favour any one of them. There was safety in numbers; how well he'd learned that lesson. He never talked about Ethan, never wondered aloud what he might be doing, or how he was faring; it was as though he'd taken every memory and, packing them tightly into some part of his head, had locked them away. And if ever Sarah or Daniel spoke of Rachel and Cutler,
of Ethan or the new baby, wondering themselves if their friends were safe and well, Jeremiah would turn away, or leave.

But now she had to focus on what was important. So? she said. Just because everyone else was doing it, doesn't mean you have to follow. You know that.

And he knew why too. The danger of the wall was worrying enough. Built as it was, with no real structural support and the piled up sand sinking underfoot, kids who dared to climb risked more than broken arms and legs. And the guards were intolerant, quick to punish, the stories of their wrath just as quick to circulate.

She tousled his hair. He'd been lucky this time, she told him. But hadn't he always been lucky? she thought. Too lucky, taking more than his share, and Sarah knew how fickle luck could be. It was only a matter of time before there'd be a reckoning.

He shrugged and edged off the chair, keen to avoid another lecture, eager to get back to his friends and push those boundaries further. That was how he'd learn: the hard way.

Could he go now? he asked. Sarah sighed. Yes, he could go.

Darkness is more than just a shade. There's the empty shadow of the night, and the soft grey veil of sleep; there's the deep dry gloom of the compound, and the violent purple of the Sea. And then there's plain old dark. No shades, no shadows, no veils. Dark that's no light. Dark that's black and thick and real, a physical thing, endless and cold; a wall that encloses and suffocates. It's loneliness and it's fear and, sometimes, it's pain.

There was no way of knowing how long I'd been sitting in that room, strapped to a chair, knees spread, each ankle bound separate, arms stretched behind me, the leather ties around my wrists just tight enough to needle my fingers; not enough to stop the blood. It could have been hours, or maybe days. Coz when it's that black and you can't see shit, you lose all sense of time. The only thing I knew was that I wasn't dead. But death might have been kinder, because my head felt as though it was coming apart, cracked and aching, wedged wide and every nerve exposed. Garrick could've taken lessons from Alex.

My shirt and vest were gone, my feet bare. Even my trousers felt loose, like they'd been cut, the pockets ripped open, the seams exposed. Whoever it was had done a thorough job, stripping me of
any advantage and taking every weapon. And I sat in that blackness, shivering and half-naked, cursing my stupidity, and my dick. But mostly, I cursed Alex.

She'd played me so well. That first urination, loud enough to wake me, making sure I saw. All those little things I'd thought were giveaways, the changes in her voice, her pointless questions, pretending I had the upper hand; the night she'd slept next to me, prodding just enough to arouse my interest. Oh yeah, she'd seen me coming a mile off. And I'd been too stupid, and way too cocky, to realise it.

Next time that voice inside your head tells you to be careful, Jem, you'd better fucking listen.

If there was a next time. But I hoped there would be because if it was the last thing I ever got to do on this fucked-up planet, I was going to make Alex pay. Closing my eyes, swapping black for black, I dreamed of ways to hurt her, all of them good.

A loud groan, the creak of a heavy door being opened, and I ducked my head, squeezing my eyes tight. Even behind the lids, the blackness brightened to grey with whatever light was being carried in. A sting, bringing tears, making my head ache more, but relief too, that I wasn't blind as I'd first feared, that I'd see again; then a scuffle of boots on stone, behind and in front, before heavy hands grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. I struggled, but
oh fuck, the pain!

More hands gripped my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and there was a splash of water, cold and wet. I spluttered and gulped, drinking it in, suddenly parched. And then it was gone, my head shoved down again, the fingers releasing their tight hold.

More noise: scraping, and a tattoo of short steps. But no voices. Just a faint whisper of breaths, the pulsing light, and a single sigh. Slowly, I opened my eyes, blinking and squinting. A pair of boots in front of me, between the legs of a chair. Further back, on either side, two more.

‘Good morning, Jeremiah.' A deep voice, low and confident. ‘How's the head?'

I raised it slowly, and saw a squarish body topped by a squarish face, brown-skinned, almost affable. The man's eyes were light, his hair too, and he wore the uniform of a Guard. He sat relaxed in his chair, lounging comfortably. Widening my gaze, I took in another Guard to his left, big and broad. To the right, smaller and slender, but wearing no uniform, stood Alex. The woman of my dreams. If only she knew.

‘Nothing to say?' the man asked.

‘Hey, Alex,' I said, testing my voice and finding it wanting. But her eyes narrowed. ‘Next time you invite a man to stick his tongue in your mouth and his fingers up your –' I didn't get to finish. The force of the Guard's fist rocked my head back and my mouth filled with the iron salt of blood. Groaning, I tongued my teeth, feeling for breaks. My head couldn't take much more.

‘Careful, Jeremiah,' he warned, too late.

I spat a glob of blood and saliva to the floor, between his feet. ‘So I guess that makes you the brother.'

He swivelled to look at Alex. ‘Thought you said he was stupid.'

There'd been a hundred reasons to hurt her before. Now there were a hundred and one.

The Guard unfolded a sheaf of papers, smoothing them on his leg, taking his time; I spat some more blood and waited.

‘Jeremiah. Other names unknown. Age unknown. Tag number, Cee five Em eight one two three five. Family deceased. Given to the Watch after killing a Guard. Spent six months in training. Two recorded disciplinary actions for insubordination, another just before your first assignment. None since. No recorded failure on assignment. Total kills, one hundred.' Pausing, he stared at me. ‘How am I doing?'

‘Okay. Except no one calls me Jeremiah. It's Jem, or it's nothing.'

‘Fair enough. Jem it is.' He shuffled the papers some more. ‘Preferred weapons, bow or crossbow. Also skilled with knife and sword. No known use of gun. Says here you're currently the youngest, and one of the longest-serving, members of the Watch.' He looked up again; another long stare. ‘Those bows are very impressive, by the way. The staff too. You've got quite the arsenal, haven't you?'

‘Not any more.'

‘No,' he agreed. ‘How do you feel about that?'

I forced a shrug, but even that hurt. ‘Unburdened. Thanks.'

No smile this time. He leaned in and poked my chest. ‘Do you know what these marks represent?'

‘Bad art?' I was trying to be helpful; he didn't seem to appreciate the gesture.

‘Each one of these means the end of dreams. Dreams that you've stolen. Taken away with one of your darts, or your knives, or your arrows. Without dreams, we're nothing.'

‘Well, shit. And all that time I thought I was making the world a better place.'

He pulled a knife and held it up. ‘But I think these marks are your dreams too, Jem. I wonder, if we cut them out, will you be nothing too?'

I felt the sudden slick of sweat, hot then cold. A good man, Alex had said. How wrong could a person be? Coz, so far? No good.

I managed a shaky smile. ‘Never been much of a dreamer,' I told him.
And fuck you.

He pressed the knife tip to one of the marks, one of the new ones, still crusty and red around the edges, then gave a quick twist and flicked off the scab. Trying not to flinch, I stared at Alex. She was watching her brother, her blank gaze giving nothing away. The other Guard shifted on his feet, bored maybe, impatient for a better show. But I wouldn't give him one.

‘And just when it was starting to heal so well,' I said.

The first Guard didn't reply, just picked at the next mark, popping off that scab as well, exposing the raw flesh and the black stain below. More blood. Then again, and again. All nine of them stinging and burning, itching and leaking.
Son of a bitch!
But I smiled while I still could, stretching my mouth wider with every scrape, giving no quarter. I was waiting for the first real dig. That was when I might stop all the smiles, and scream.

Finally he sat back, and I breathed deep, jaw throbbing, chest burning. But worse was the pounding in my head, like someone was wringing it out, squeezing then releasing then squeezing again, and I felt my eyes glaze over. Blinking hard, I focused on the knife.

‘D'you know who we are, Jem?' the Guard asked.

‘You're the Guards I'm s'posed to rescue. Ballard and Tate.'

His eyes warmed again, and he smiled. ‘That's right. Ballard,' he said, then jerked his head at the other Guard. ‘And Tate.'

‘Not captured,' I said.

‘Not captured, Jem.'

He might've been hoping for more questions but I was too sore, and beyond exhausted. So I closed my eyes, willing him to finish what he'd started. Maybe, if he dug deep enough, he'd actually kill me and that'd be a relief.

But there was no press of the knife, no gouging. Just the scrape of his chair and his deep voice: ‘That's enough for today. Alex, clean him up.'

I opened my eyes in time to see him disappear out the door, Tate in tow, and I was left alone with my nemesis. But the door stayed ajar. I watched Alex set the lantern on the floor next to my chair and pick up the jug of water and a cloth. Wetting it, she sponged my chest, not gently, and I hissed.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You don't make a sound when a knife cuts you, but you cry at a bit of water?'

‘Shut up,' I muttered. She wiped harder then, and I closed my eyes, sucking in air.

‘There, that's the best I can do,' she said finally, and I looked down to see the blood gone, the wounds glistening and angry. Rinsing the cloth, she held it to my face and wiped at the blood around my mouth. I watched her eyes; they were light like her brother's, a kind of grey-green. Strange that I'd not noticed their colour before. Holding my chin with one hand, she traced the cloth over my lips.

‘Open your mouth,' she said, before sliding her fingers inside and feeling along my jaw. Her fingers were smooth and they tasted clean, almost sweet. I could've bitten down, breaking every bone, but that would've earned me another clout to the head, or worse, so I let her do her thing. When she wiped her fingers on her clothes, they left a stain. ‘No loose teeth. You're lucky.'

Yeah. Lucky Jem.

Tugging my head forwards, she prodded at the wound, and I jerked away. ‘Shit!'

‘You'll live,' she said. But even she didn't sound entirely convinced.

‘What the hell did you hit me with anyway?'

‘A rock. A big one.' No remorse, and no sympathy. Tough as nails. She held the jug to my mouth. ‘Drink. It's all you'll get until tomorrow.'

I hated having to obey her, hated that I was at her mercy. That hurt more than everything else. But I drank because I wasn't stupid. Not this time, anyway.

Picking up the lantern, she walked to the door, only turning when I called out, ‘You should've hit me harder, Alex. Coz I'm gunna kill you. And I'm gunna make it hurt.'

She smiled at me, and for a moment she almost looked sad. ‘No, you won't,' she said, before closing the door to leave me in the dark.

Before the rains stopped, there was the rule of threes: three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. When the water disappeared, people learned to extend that second rule, eke out the time, stretching it to four days or more. I'd gone five days before, but it wasn't something I was in any hurry to do again.

And it was possible to go longer without food as well, but I wasn't sure I wanted to try that either. Water was good, but I was hungry too. I had no idea how long it had been since Alex had smashed that rock into my head, but I could feel myself weakening, the cold of the room sapping any strength. Every muscle was cramped, my hands numbing, my feet frozen. And, always, there was that stabbing ache in my head, making rest difficult, sleep impossible.

I was trying to doze when they came in for round two. Again there was the hard grip of hands, the sharp pain, the cool wet water and then silence as they settled themselves and waited for me to look up to see them in the same positions as before. Quite a routine they had going.

Ballard didn't waste any time. ‘Alex told me about that game you played. Three for three, she said. We're going to play that now, you and I. You'll ask me three questions and then it'll be my turn. Understand?'

I nodded, real slow because it felt as though any minute my head might fall off my neck and roll away across the floor.

‘Go ahead,' he said. ‘And take your time.'

‘Where are we?' My voice sounded more hoarse.

‘In an old mine, about two hours north of the settlement.' He gave a thin smile. ‘You weren't where you were supposed to be, Jem. Nor had we counted on Alex having to deal with you so decisively. Getting you here was a little problematic.'

‘Damned shame,' I said.

Frowning at my flippancy, Ballard said, ‘Next?'

‘What was Alex carrying in that pack?'

He looked a little disappointed by that one. ‘Supplies, mostly medical. And maps.'

I didn't waste my third question trying to find out what sort of maps. Or why he needed medical supplies. That was his problem. I could sense his growing anticipation, impatience for me to ask what he was desperate to answer, and if I'd felt any stronger I might've toyed with him a bit, dragging it out. But really, I was too fucked for any games.

‘Why the charade?' I asked, and his wide smile almost made me regret the question.

‘Because we needed the Tower to send their best Watchman. And the only way we could be sure they'd do that was if they thought we were prisoners with important information. Simple, but effective.'

‘And wrong,' I pointed out. ‘I'm not the best.'