Freda: Volume III in the New Eden series (22 page)

“No big loss,” he mutters, and I am relieved when I hear the paddle slip into the water again.

“Tawtrukk heathens and Subterran freaks,” he says.

I won’t argue, even though his words disgust me. Despite everything he’s seen, he still thinks of the others as a pestilence to be cleansed, not people to be loved. How can his heart still contain so much—

I let out another gasp, this time for what I see opening up before us.

If the lake-like expanse we traversed yesterday was big, the seemingly endless water now before us is enormous. The shore on our right, what had been the northern shore of the big lake and which we’ve continued to follow into the narrows, now pulls away in a huge arc. This constriction wasn’t a new river after all but a narrowing of the lake before it opened up into an expanse five times bigger.

The southern shore keeps a straight line, but the northern shore falls away dramatically into an enormous bay on our right. Miles ahead, it curves back, in hills that define the water’s edges. Even there, in the narrowest spot, it’s still over a mile wide.

A curved line slices the horizon connecting the northern shore to the southern shore across that narrow gap.

“What is that?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Tynan’s voice filled with awe.

“I think it’s a bridge,” I say, not feeling it necessary to add that its enormity dwarfs even the memory of the incredible concrete canyons of the city and its spectacular domed building. Beyond the bridge, the water continues and then seems either to end in a line of steep hills or to turn northward and out of sight. A strong, cool breeze billows my hair as it skips over the waves.

“No, not the bridge,” Tynan scoffs. “That.” The paddle sweeps up out of the water and points past my shoulder at the shore far away, just to the right of the bridge, along the northern shore where it comes back around its arc.

“I... don’t know,” I answer.

Where Tynan points, in the water near the shore, a line of hulking grayness sits. It’s impossible to know from this distance. From here, it looks like a row of enormous, floating buildings all gray and brown.

“Do you think,” I say slowly, “it’s perhaps another city that was swallowed up by the water after the War?”

Because that’s very much what it looks like. Those gray hulks all in lines could be the tops of city buildings like the concrete canyons we left behind. I imagine what that city might look like if the water had risen to cover all its lower structures, leaving only the tops visible. It might look very much like that. And we might be floating directly over a watery tomb of thousands of people right now.

“Perhaps,” Tynan says. “But I don’t know.”

A sudden thought occurs to me, something I am embarrassed not to have thought of before. The maps from Prophecies pop into my head, and I blurt out, “Tynan, stop. We have to stop. Bring us up to the shore.”

“What? Why?”

“I need to be on land for a minute. Trust me. I have an idea, but I’m not sure it’s right.”

I don’t expect him to do it without further argument, but within seconds we’re sliding up onto a muddy flat. I hop out and find a long, narrow stick. Ignoring its slimy wetness, I begin gouging out lines in the mud. It’s too wet here, though, so I run farther up the flat until I find good dirt. Tynan follows close behind.

He watches as I scratch out the maps that I remember. The lake, Southshaw, and the mountains. The westward road. The city on the river, and the waterway leading to...

“The ocean,” Tynan says.

“No,” I correct. “This is not the ocean. The ocean has no far shore. This place had no name on the map in Prophecies. But remember the bridge?”

“No,” Tynan says. “You never said anything about a bridge.”

“Yes, I did,” I reply curtly although I realize it’s possible that detail had slipped my mind..

“No, you didn’t.”

“Anyway,” I continue, “there was a bridge. Next to—”

“The Iron Fleet,” he breathes.

CHAPTER 23

We both turn and gaze across the open water to the ash-colored hulks. They are unbearably enormous.

Tynan steps a little closer, ignoring the mud caking up on his shoes. “Those are boats? They’re huge. Each one must be bigger than a hundred Jingham’s barns.”

If someone had asked me to imagine a hundred of those barns put together, I wouldn’t have imagined anything half the size of each of these boats.

“There are dozens,” I say.

“A fleet,” he replies. He turns and grins wide at me. “We’ve found it, Freda. We’re so close.”

He starts back to the canoe, which we left by the water’s edge.

“Come on! We’re almost there. I can feel it. What did Prophecies say?”

I follow, but I can’t take my eyes off the fleet sitting motionless out there. It has sat there for three centuries in the shadow of that soaring bridge, like the city, a vacant monument to all that was before. I feel the ghosts of the past standing on top of the bridge and looking down on us in judgment. The Iron Fleet waits out there for our arrival, three hundred years sitting sentinel watching for us.

Or rather, watching for the thirteenth Semper. That’s what the prophecy said. It said the thirteenth Semper would lead the people out of Southshaw to Reunion Mountain. The thirteenth Semper would discover the Radio and contact the other tribes. Dane should be the one gazing on this spectacle with me, not Tynan.

Something makes my stomach turn over. Maybe it’s the salty smell of dead fish and river scum. Maybe it’s the chill breeze sweeping under the bridge and across the water. Maybe it’s the mud squelching around my boots as I follow Tynan back to the canoe.

No. It’s none of those things. I feel sick because of the judgment I feel from all those ghosts—thousands of them, millions of them—looking down on us from the bridge and the empty hillsides. Under their accusing stares, I do not feel like a chosen one so much as a sneaking criminal. It’s the same as the horror I felt under the burning stare of that empty-eyed skull in the mountains.

I hurry to catch Tynan and take my place in the boat. Breathless, I ask, “Turn south, right? That’s what Prophecies said. Reunion Mountain is south.”

He shoves the boat into the water and hops in behind me.

“We should cross the water here, where it’s narrowest,” he says. “That’s the only way to go south.”

The “narrowest” part looks a half mile wide, and although the waves that roll across it are lower than they looked yesterday, they’re still bigger than any I’ve seen on the lake and look treacherous for this little canoe. As anxious as I am about that open water, I’d rather chance drowning than walk over that bridge. Too many ghosts up there.

“I hope you can swim,” Tynan grunts as he digs into the water and pushes hard with the paddle.

“I hope we don’t have to find out,” I answer. Although I always felt comfortable in the shallows, I never had to swim more than a few dozen feet before.

Tynan grunts with every stroke, but he never mentions the pain that must sear his shoulder where the wild dog tore at him. I wish we had another paddle so I could help get this over sooner, but we don’t.

Within seconds we’re out of the smooth, protected shallows and into the open, and at once the little boat begins rocking like a cradle tied to the reins of a wild horse. When a wave rolls into our side, it feels like we’ll flip over but instead the little boat bobs up and over the top of it, just like those silly looking white birds we see all around us.

I grip the boat and try to sit lower because that feels less tippy. We move slowly and clumsily. when we slice right into a wave, water splashes over the prow and mists my face with an icy spray. Every drop that spills inside makes me wonder how deep the water is. After a minute, Tynan seems to find a rhythm in the chaotic waves and begins managing the boat through them, picking the moments to push and the moments to pause.

Halfway across, the winds coming from under the bridge gust the hardest. They blow my dirty, matted hair up around my face, and when we’re on top of a wave the gusts push hard into our side.

Tynan’s grunts become more raspy and labored. but still he pushes on. The canoe’s nose bashes into the waves, slammed back and forth. We seem to be drifting to our right, toward the bridge, out into wider water.

“Tynan?”

He doesn’t answer, but I can feel the boat scoot forward with every stroke. He seems to be resting longer between each push.

“Tynan, we have to keep straight.”

If we keep drifting west, we’ll slip out into the open water where it’s twice as wide at least, and I can’t help but think we’ll be lost for sure.

“Tynan, please steer left—”

“I am!” The fear and frustration in his roar frightens me more than any of these waves. For the first time, I really think we might not make it.

“Tynan—”

“Shut up, will you? Just shut up.”

“I could paddle for a bit—”

“It’s hard enough for me. You’d get us nowhere.”

He may be right, but—

A bigger wave swells beside us and then rolls up and under, tipping the little boat. We teeter as it pushes us left, and a sudden gust catches the side of the boat and raises its edge as if hands were pushing up from underneath.

I scream and scramble to hold on to the slick, smooth surface as the canoe tumbles sideways and I fall from the seat into the cold water. The boat flips entirely over, with Tynan still inside. Our supplies come unlashed and tumble away to disappear under the dark water.

I flail around trying to keep my head from dipping under the waves that follow, and I grab out for the boat. I can’t get my numb fingers to grab it anywhere. Its smooth underbelly is solid, with nowhere to grab on. I’ll exhaust myself trying to scramble up. My only hope is to right it.

Where is Tynan? He might be strong enough to do it.

The cold water squeezes the air from my chest, and within seconds my teeth are chattering uncontrollably.

Tynan. Where is Tynan?

I kick around to the back of the capsized canoe and try to reach below it, but another big wave bashes us. I need to get to the high side of the boat. I have no time to worry about bruises or whether my forehead is bleeding.

Grappling my way around, I screech, “Tynan!” over and over. In just a few seconds I’ve made it to the high side, where I bob up over the boat as each wave swells past. I still can’t climb up, but I feel more in control, even as my body numbs and my fingers start to burn.

I reach under the boat again and grasp at some unknown thing with my numb fingers and pull. It’s a rope that comes free in my hand. I drop it and reach below again, but this time I feel nothing. I duck my head under the water but can’t see anything in the inky dark.

I pop back up, gasping. I have no time for despair and only a little breath to screech Tynan’s name again.

“Freda!” It comes from the far side of the boat.

“I’m here, Tynan. Come around to the high side.”

A few seconds later I see one hand, then the other, then Tynan’s soaked hair pasted down over his face, and we gape at each other, sputtering briny water as we grasp the slippery boat and keep from drowning.

“We have to flip it over,” I say, and he agrees. “The next wave, we both push up, okay?”

“Right.”

It hits immediately, and we both push and kick. I think a prayer in my head. I don’t even know what words come to my mind, but the plea for help is pure and desperate.

A sudden gust like the one that capsized us catches the holes and lifts the boat nearly out of the water, yanking it away from our hands and flipping it upright again. I am so elated by the sight that I would cheer if I had any breath left.

Tynan reaches out and grabs on, looking like he’s about to pull himself up, but something feels wrong.

“Stop,” I shout, and he pauses.

“Why?” He glares but waits for my answer.

“No,” I say as I let the thoughts form. “If you try to climb up, it might just flip over again. Go around the other side.”

“You go around the other side,” he growls as he reaches for the boat again.

“All right, good idea,” I agree. “Wait for me, okay?”

He stares as I swim away, and in a few seconds I’m at my spot with my arms over the top and my fingers grasping the edge of the sitting hole. The waves keep battering us every few seconds. We have to get back in.

“All right,” I shout. “I’m ready.”

He doesn’t answer, but I feel the canoe tip his way. I kick hard in the water and yank myself up, pulling until my stomach is on top of the boat and my feet rise out of the water, hoping my weight will balance his. The boat rocks and sways, but there’s no way I’m falling off. I swing my feet up and into the sitting hole. Tynan has also recovered into his seat.

We both gasp and puff, and I welcome the sun’s warmth on my shoulders and face. But we have no time to rest. If we don’t get to shore, we’re sure to tip over again. I’m not sure I’d have the strength to repeat what we just did.

“Tynan,” I say, fear now creeping back into my heart and overcoming my relief, “we should start moving.”

He doesn’t answer, and I look back to see him leaning forward, his head bowed and his black hair dripping, sagging around his face. He grips his bad shoulder with his good hand. Something’s missing.

The paddle.

All our supplies are gone. Four inches of water sloshes around my ankles, and we have nothing to bail it with. We’re drifting farther west, toward the bridge, with every second. If I ask Tynan where the paddle is, he might explode.

I reach over the side and try to paddle with my hand, but it does nothing. I start to lean out and try to paddle with both hands, but we tip so violently that I sit down hard and hope I haven’t capsized us again.

We need that paddle.

I spot it immediately, a small, unnatural patch of orange on the rolling gray-green, twenty or so yards away.

“Tynan?” I ask, possibly too softly for him to hear me. He doesn’t answer, and when I glance over my shoulder I see he hasn’t moved at all.

My clothes are soaked and heavy, and even though the sun feels warm and the breeze seems to have let up, I still chatter and shiver as the boat drifts slowly toward the bridge.

Maybe we can just drift for a while, and the current will take us to one shore or the other. Maybe we can just sit and wait, and God will provide us a path.

The paddle glints orange in the bright sun again.

Or, maybe God is providing us a path. Maybe, like Reverend Timothy in the mountains in the days after the War, I just need to struggle on. It’s up to me to take the next step, now that God has shown me the way.

No sense in waiting—the paddle slips farther away every second. I pull my thick, sopping shirt over my head and toss it down into the boat by my feet. I don’t want it dragging me down to the bottom. Next off: my boots, followed by my pants.

When I leap from the boat, I’m wearing only undershorts and the tight wrap covering my breasts. I make for the spot where I last saw the paddle. Splashing and sputtering, I reach it faster than I expected.

The water’s icy cold is cramping my legs and squeezing my lungs. I grab the paddle, surprised at how light it is, and fight my way back to the boat.

Tynan has not moved. He looks almost asleep

“Tynan!” I shout from low in the water at the side of the little boat. He doesn’t move.

“Tynan, please,” I gasp, the cold constricting around me. “Help.”

After a few seconds, he raises his head and looks down at me. I lift the paddle up at him, using all my strength just to keep my mouth above the water.

He stares a moment at the paddle. His gaze follows its shaft to my hand, then down my bare arm to my naked shoulder, then to my eyes. I don’t understand the feeling behind his eyes, but I can see disapproval, even as I plead with him to help.

He sits motionless, not saying a word. He stares at my eyes as I bob in the water next to our canoe, holding the paddle skyward for him. Then he drops his head again.

He’s not going to help me? Why would he not help me?

After a few seconds, I stop waiting. I unclasp my wrap and slip it off my breasts, tying one end to the paddle and the other end to my wrist. I clench my teeth, kick hard, and launch myself high enough to crunch my fingers around the lip of the seat. My numb fingers can’t grip at all, but I won’t let go. I won’t.

Pain wraps every bit of my body as I pull up, kicking at the water. I rise inch by inch, my stomach and breasts scraping along the boat’s smooth surface as my weight slides up and over. Finally, I swing my feet into the seat.

The waves keep rolling, and we keep bobbing across them. I have no time to catch my breath, no time to wait for the sun’s warmth to thaw me and dry the water from my skin. I push my heavy, wet hair back from my face and then pull the paddle up out of the water.

I sit forward, my back to Tynan. If he’s looking at my naked back, I don’t care. Let him look. Let him judge. He would let us die. Already the sun is warming me even as the breeze raises goosebumps all over my bare arms and chest. Let Tynan stare. Let the whole world see. I don’t care.