Freda: Volume III in the New Eden series (19 page)

“Uh huh.”

“And the windows. No decoration. No color.”

“So?”

I slip my pack off my back, which seems like it’s become a part of my own body, and I quickly pull out my little cloth prayer book. “Stories, Dane. How do we learn about our faith, about our God?”

“Stories,” he says. He knows because he was taught how to create and deliver sermons. He was raised to become Southshaw’s spiritual leader. He should understand.

“Everything in our chapel, from the Bomb to the stained glass to the figures carved in the benches and the pillars and the doors—everything told a story. Look around.”

“No stories,” Dane says.

“Maybe that’s why they gathered so many books here,” I muse, looking out at the labyrinth again. A sudden sparkle catches my eye not far away, among the lines of books, but an instant later a cloud covers the sunlight, throwing the room into a dim gloom.

“Then what was this place? A meeting hall?” Dane is working to imagine it.

“Like the Tawtrukk meeting hall? For making decisions? Possibly.” This hall is so much bigger, so much more intimidating than the Tawtrukk hall. Wisdom would get lost in this kind of place, in such a building so clearly dedicated to the grandiose.

Dane kneels next to the
Christian
box, runs his fingers along the top to wipe away three centuries of dust. He drags it out from under the table with a musty scrape of metal on wood. He gives me one nervous glance before lifting the lid.

A terrifying screech of metal grating metal echoes through the entire chamber, sending an eruption of small birds skyward through the broken ceiling.

“Sorry,” Dane mumbles.

I peer into the dim confines of the box. It’s not large, only a few feet across and a foot deep. Right on top lies a thick book with a leather cover. Dane opens it to the first page and reads the handwritten script aloud.

“Membership of the Last Unified Church, Rev Julie Whitehurst.” He looks up at me, reflecting my own questions. Final Unified Church? This place was a church after all?

He looks back to the book. “All God’s children are welcome here, where the last of Humanity have lived out our final days in peace. I go now into the wilderness to meet God, having buried all the others, whose names are written herein. I don’t know if anyone will ever read these words. I wish peace on all who do. Goodbye. Reverend Whitehurst.”

Dane turns a few pages and says, “It’s a list of names and the dates they died.”

He closes the book gently and sets it on the floor next to my backpack.

Beneath the book lie a small collection of artifacts in a delicate arrangement. A folded white cloth embroidered with golden symbols, beautiful in its work and quality. A single book, bound in black leather with a cross and the words Holy Bible emblazoned on the front. A small figurine of a desperate and unhappy man with his arms out at his sides and his feet together. A string of beads—

A sudden, violent thump beside me sends Dane crashing into the metal box and table, his breath woofing from him. The box crashes forward, overturning the table and sending it all toppling away as Dane sprawls on the floor. A tiny shriek escapes me before I gather myself and turn.

“Come on,” a gruff voice demands as a hand clamps my forearm and drags me away from Dane, toward the steps we climbed up to get here.

I am yanked off balance and pulled along by a surprising strength. The familiar voice is tinged with disgust and rage. Even in the gloom and shock I recognize the man’s slender build and muscular arms, his black hair—Tynan.

“Stop,” I try to say, but the pushing and dragging pummel my breath from me. I glance back once to see Dane still lying on the dais, slumped over the box, unmoving.

The sky is darkening as the storm comes in, and a chill pushes down through the broken ceiling. Tynan yanks and pulls me through the labyrinth of books, which disappear in a silent blur of centuries. We reach the doorway in seconds, and Tynan shoves me through before him with a brutal strength that tells me if I fight back, it will not go well.

“You should not be here,” he growls. “Think what you want of me now, but you’ll thank me later when you realize how close to damnation you’ve come.” With a single shove, he knocks me back onto my bottom, against the wall. “Don’t move.” The threat is clear, as is the reality. If I run, he will catch me. Dane cannot help me. I am alone.

He opens a backpack that sits on the floor and extracts some things, his actions shielded from my view by his body. He doesn’t look at me as he slithers through the door again. He’s gone less than a minute, and I sit where I am rather than try to escape. Where would I run? Where could I hide? He would find me. He would catch me. And then, his wrath would be double.

He returns and, without a word, grabs his pack with one hand and my arm with the other. He yanks me to my feet so hard that my shoulder burns with lightning, and I stumble behind as he drags me through the curving hallway, through the dark and treacherous entry, out into the dark afternoon, down the wide steps.

We charge ahead until we reach the grazing horses, which seem unworried about our frantic arrival. Tynan lifts me up onto one but keeps the reins tight in his own hand as he lashes his pack to my horse and then climbs onto the other.

“Ha!” he shouts, kicking the horses forward into a trot across the wide, grassy expanse that Dane and I crossed only an hour or so earlier.

As we reach the far edge, I twist to look back at the grand building with its round top and wide, dramatic entrance. In the dark of the gathering storm, my whole body chills with a shiver as a flicker of orange glows from the dome. Then a burst of flame puffs out from its side, like a misshapen candle with its wick in the wrong place. That flame is sucked back inside, but it’s followed by another that leaps up and into the sky.

As we near the corner to enter the maze of soulless, concrete canyons, a crashing thunder echoes from behind. One final glance back to see the entire building awash in an orange glow. When I scream, “No!” and try to turn my horse around, Tynan’s fist lashes out and bashes the world to silent blackness.

CHAPTER 20

“We’ve been in this shed for hours, Tynan,” I whine. “Can’t we go back to the camp now?” I keep asking, but I know he’ll never take me there.

The horses stand serene a few feet away in the gloom. Twilight is taking over the city, and the ghosts of the past are moaning in the evening winds that come up the river and sweep through the buildings. Rain has been hammering on the roof of this shed for hours, sometimes in great gusts. After leaving the burning domed building, Tynan took us here, to this ancient shed on the bank of the river a half mile or so upstream from where the others are camped. We’ve eaten the lunch Lupay gave Dane, and I don’t know what he plans now.

Tynan is sawing his knife through a rope he found, cutting off a disturbing length. “This is for your own good, Freda. You know it is.”

I want to say I know nothing of the sort, but over the past few hours I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. The ache in my cheek is probably bluing into a dark bruise the size of his palm. The only good thing about losing my backpack in that fire is that I don’t have my hand mirror to show me how ugly that bruise must look.

Tynan’s knife breaks through the stubborn, ancient cord, and he stands up from the old box he’s been sitting on. He stalks across the small room and waits before me.

“Stand up.”

I stand, looking down at the space between our feet.

“Put out your hands.”

I hold out my hands together, palms up. He flips them over and wraps the cord around and around my wrists, lashing them snug but not uncomfortably tight.

“Dane was beyond redemption, Freda. I am certain you know it in your heart.”

He ties off the cord, and a quick tug assures me I have no hope of breaking free without help. He puts a gentle finger to my chin and lifts so we are eye to eye. I have no desire to look at him, but I want him to see that I don’t have the cowardice to look away. I stare blankly into his eyes.

“But I won’t give up on you, Freda,” he whispers. His moist eyes look almost ready to tear up, and his softness is disarming compared to his earlier violence. “I know you can be saved.”

I don’t need saving.

“Maybe you don’t realize it right now,” he says, leaning even closer, “but before long you’ll thank me. You’ll understand that everything I’m doing is because I love you. Because I have faith in you.”

He has a strange way of showing it. Attacking my husband and leaving him for dead. Hitting me when I tried to run away. And now tying up my hands. I want to tell him these things, but it will only lead to another bruise.

He leans his face closer to mine, and with a shock I realize he means to kiss me. As his lips brush mine, I turn my face away and down. I close my eyes, waiting for the angry strike.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, he steps back and says, “Soon you’ll see. I know I can save you. Together we’ll fulfill the Lord’s plan.”

He turns and heads out through the doorway into the rain, which has slowed to a steady shower. “Come,” he announces over his shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

I follow, wondering what he plans to do about the horses. They watch me as I step out of the dry, warm shed and into the chilling rain. In seconds, my hair and shoulders are soaked, and by the time I get to the muddy riverbank just a few dozen yards away, my pants are drenched through. The rain hisses on the river in billions of tiny splashes, and the river smells dark and grassy. It might be pleasant under different conditions.

Tynan drags the small boat he found to the edge of the water. It’s the strangest little boat, long and skinny like a canoe, pointed at both ends, but all wrapped up on itself with just two round holes in the top. It’s made of a strange, hard material that feels slick and smooth like it’s been wiped with pig fat. It’s much lighter than any wooden boat. Tynan cleaned out the spiderwebs and found an unusual two-headed paddle, which he holds in one hand as he watches me slip and stumble toward him.

“It would be easier to walk,” I suggest, “if my hands were free.”

He does not respond but just watches as I arrive by his side. We are on the very edge of the river, which is a hundred yards wide here. I can’t see how swift it is, but it has the feel of a deep, cold death should I slip in.

“Sit here,” Tynan says, pointing to the side of the strange canoe.

When I sit, he crouches before me and lashes my ankles together.

“Tynan,” I say with alarm, “what if the boat sinks?”

“It won’t,” he grunts, yanking the cord a little tighter.

“Ouch, that hurts,” I say, hoping he’ll loosen it.

He doesn’t. Instead, he finishes tying an efficient knot and grabs my ankles. He lifts my legs and swings me around where I sit, then slips my feet into the forward of the two round openings on top of the canoe.

“In,” he instructs, and I wriggle myself forward and down into the hole. I settle into a surprisingly comfortable seat, with my legs stretched before me inside the cover of the canoe. I rest my tied hands on the top of the canoe, my heart racing with the thought of tipping over. If something happens, I will sink straight to the bottom.

“Tynan—”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he interrupts as he slips a cloth around me and cinches it into my mouth.  He pulls it tight and ties it behind my head, catching strands of my wet hair in a painful pinch. The gag is heavy with rainwater, and I swallow some of it down when I bite into the cloth.

If I could talk, I might ask him if this is how he plans to show his love to me always, with bindings and gags.

Tynan slides the canoe off the bank and into the water, stepping into the rear opening and settling into his own seat, the paddle in his hands.

The current snatches us, swift and smooth. The canoe slides through the water in utter silence, the only new sound a hollow thrumming of the steady rain on its hard top and the barest hints of splashes as Tynan dips the paddle into the black water again and again with an unrelenting steadiness. He steers us into the middle of the river, then across to the far side, where we settle into a smooth glide next to the bank.

“We’ll be passing the camp soon,” Tynan says low and quiet behind me. “Do not make any sound. Do you understand?”

I give a dramatic nod to make sure he knows I will do what he says. I don’t know how far he’ll let his anger take him the next time. I’m in no position to disobey.

Within three minutes, the sounds of music and laughter rise above the chatter of the rain, and the smells of wood smoke and cooking meat torment me. If I’m lucky, maybe the growling of my empty stomach will be so loud it will attract attention from the camp. Another few moments and we round the big bend in the river to see the red-orange glow of campfires across the way.

When I see it, I lose all hope of being accidentally seen as we slip past. We are too far away. We are in dark clothing, made blacker by the wet of the rain. They are involved in eager celebration and surrounded by warm fire, with no reason to look across the river. We are silent and swift, and as the camp glides past and behind us, the tension in my body melts into sad dejection.

No one will know. The horses left no tracks through the concrete streets of the city, and they will likely wander back to the camp riderless. No one will know there was a boat. Tom and Lupay will assume that I perished with Dane in the domed building when it burned. No one will give much thought to Tynan’s disappearance.

We slip along in silence as the rain lets up and the clouds clear into a starry night lit bright by a two-thirds moon. The river slithers among the tall buildings for a mile or so, then through low villages, then out into the great plain once more. I am not sorry to be out of the city, but this is not how I imagined I would leave it.

When the last of the city’s buildings is behind us, Tynan speaks.

“You realize where we’re going, don’t you?”

Perhaps he has forgotten the rag he tied in my mouth.

He laughs—he actually laughs!—and leans forward to untie it. As he pulls it away, it scratches my lips and snatches at my hair, but I hide the little pains.

He laughs again. “Sorry. I nearly forgot. Now. I’ll ask again. You do know where we’re going. Right?”

“Of course,” I say, my mouth still sore and aching from the uncomfortable gag.

“The iron fleet,” he says.

“Reunion Mountain,” I respond.

I don’t want to admit it, but even amid the torrent of anger, pain, and sorrow that squeezes me to exhaustion, I feel a glimmer of anticipation. Reunion Mountain. Even the name speaks hope to me. I don’t know if Dane ever would have looked for it. I could have lived my whole life happily with Dane and never seen the mountain, but even at the very end I would still feel a void in my heart, a question unanswered.

“I knew you were not beyond redemption,” Tynan says with a smug confidence.

And I hate him for it.

At a wide area where the water runs slow around a broad turn in the river, he guides the canoe until it bumps into a low, muddy spot. It rides up onto the shore, and he clambers out with a splash and a small curse about wet feet. In a moment he’s dragged the boat up onto the mud far enough that there’s no chance it could drift back into the water.

I wait patiently as he busies himself first with unlashing a few bundles from the boat and carrying them up the bank to dryer ground. Finally, after several minutes, he returns to me. I expect him to untie my hands, but he does not.

Leaning down, he says, “Hold on to me.”

Since it’s the only way for me to get out of this boat, I reach up and put my hands over his head, wrapping them around the back of his neck. He grabs under my arms, and together we lift me up and out of the canoe. He carries me, like one of his bundles of supplies, up the bank to the dryer ground, then sets me gently down to sit amid the chirps of crickets and the croaks of big frogs.

Tall grass and reeds stand like a wall along the river’s edge, taller even than Tynan. In places the grass has grown so tall that it’s flopped over onto itself in great piles. The area smells wet and green, and when the sun rises I expect to see the rocks covered with moss and the river thick with green. A cool breeze tickles the tops of the reeds, swaying them gently like a mother’s hand on a cradle.

Tynan stretches and twists. “All that paddling,” he grunts, “makes you sore, you know?”

I stare at the cords wrapped around my wrists, wet and rubbing my skin raw. “I can imagine,” I say, trying to sweeten my words with sympathy.

I don’t want to anger him. His bindings still constrict my ankles, and although I might be able to throw my hands up to shield myself from another of his angry blows, it’s better to stay calm and avoid the need to do so. Soon enough he will have to sleep.

He’s walked farther up the riverbank and seems to be examining the reeds and grass. They look impenetrable, but the moonlight exposes two gaps that look like animal tracks. This might be a popular drinking spot for all kinds of animals, where the beach descends gently to the slow water. If this were Southshaw, I would expect to see deer and coyotes, possibly even a bear or a big cat. Here, in the open plains left unpopulated for three centuries, I wonder if there are other types of animals to worry about.

But has this land been unpopulated for three centuries? How can I be sure these tracks were made by animals?

Suddenly the cords around my ankles and wrists seem less an annoyance and more a mortal danger.

“I’m hungry, Tynan,” I say.

“Mmm.” He’s distracted by his examination of the area.

“If you untie me, I can cook us some dinner,” I offer.

“No fires,” he replies. “Not at night. In the morning, maybe.”

“Well, I can make something that does not require cooking,” I say, failing to keep my nervousness from sharpening the words.

He does not reply.

I try laughing, but it comes out a little manic. “Surely you’re hungry, too. After all that paddling.” I wait for a reply that does not come. “But I can’t get you anything with my hands bound.”

This makes him turn and consider. His face is in shadow, just a silhouette against the moonlit grasses and star-washed sky. After a moment he nods and stands. “All right,” he says. “Dried meat in one of the bags. I’m sorry, that’s all we’ve got.”

I smile as big as possible, hoping my teeth glow unthreatening in the moonlight. All I want right now is to be untied and have a little food. My head has begun hurting, and I feel weak. I have to get away from him soon, before he takes me too far from my friends in the city. I still have a chance of making it back if I follow the river, but another day or two and it might be too far for me to make it. I have no skills in hunting, and I doubt I could fight off a pack of coyotes looking for an easy meal. But there’s no way I could overcome Tynan.

As he approaches, I hold out my hands and wait patiently until he removes the cord. He slips it into his pocket and mumbles, “You can get your ankles yourself,” and goes back to the reeds.

The afternoon warmth didn’t last much past nightfall, and the water that sloshed into our boat has chilled my hands and soaked the cord around my ankles. I didn’t realize how numb and weak my fingers had become over the past few hours, and I struggle to loosen the knot that Tynan cinched tight. I work at it for several seconds before he mumbles something from deep in the tall grass.