Freda: Volume III in the New Eden series (23 page)

After the cold water, working the paddle through the waves feels good. In minutes, I’m warmed through and my knotted muscles are loosening. It takes a little practice, but the boat is nimble and responsive, and the waves are not difficult to navigate.

We’ve drifted very far west, into wider water, but I know that if I keep paddling hard I can get us to the southern shore before we drift completely under that cursed bridge. Still, as I push us south, we continue to drift in the current. After fifteen minutes, we’ve floated far enough west to see through a gap in the southern hills.

There, not especially far off, a solitary peak rises from the otherwise flat land. It’s much lower than the mountains of Southshaw, just a very big hill really, but it is unmistakeable from the maps etched in my mind.

I paddle, my salty hair drying brittle in the sun as my body perspires with exertion, and I wonder if it was God’s idea all along to delay us, to challenge us, to test our resolve. And His reward is to show us our destination.

In Southshaw, I would be mortified to appear outside with no covering over my shoulders and breasts. But at this moment, in this place, with great flocks of birds weaving through the sky and hills rolling golden and the mysterious gray-green of the water... I feel like never putting my heavy, rough shirt on again. Only Tynan and God can see me here, and Tynan is the only one I feel judged by.

I look back over my shoulder once to squint into the brightness at the hilltops behind, but behind is no longer important.

CHAPTER 24

The boat slices through the shallow water and cuts up into the sandy mud of the southern shore. My shoulders and arms burn all through, like someone has filled them with fiery hot embers. Even before the boat has fully stopped, I leap out, relishing the beautiful splash of muddy water squelching between my toes. I throw the paddle away, onto the shore ahead of us, and I drag with all my remaining strength to bring the canoe fully out of the water. Even with Tynan sitting in the rear, it’s not terribly hard to drag.

The exertion of the last hour and the elation of being back on land make me want to sing. I look up at the sun, spread my arms wide and feel its warmth wash over and through my whole body. I just can’t help it. Joy overwhelms me, and it rises in my belly through my chest and erupts in a boisterous whooping noise I’ve never made before. I whoop again, even louder, but it breaks up into a laughing, coughing fit that rattles me with pain but in a joyous way.

“Freda!” Tynan stands beside the boat, a stern frown on his dark, heavily stubbled face. “Control yourself. And put your clothes on.”

There is such poison and disgust in his tone that it feels like he’s just struck me across the cheek. The joy drains out of me in an instant. I feel suddenly naked.

I turn away from him as much as I can while reaching into the bottom of the boat to retrieve my sopping wet things, all the while his judgment burning in his sharp gaze. As I start to spread the clothes across the top of the boat to dry out, Tynan barks at me.

“Put them on!”

“They’re soaked—”

“What are you, some kind of whore?”

I would have preferred another slap across the face.

“Should I treat you like a whore?” He steps toward me, and I move away, turning my body to hide as much of it as I can from him.

“Tynan,” I plead, “stop. I will dress, but I would prefer to wear dry clothes.”

“You mean you would prefer to be naked.”

“No!”

He takes another step, and I dart around the other side of the boat. But he’s the one that’s been resting for an hour while I paddled. He’s the one wearing boots. He’s strong. And the rage simmering behind his eyes terrifies me. I could use the axe right now to keep him away, but it’s at the bottom of the water.

“You liked stripping off your clothes, didn’t you?”

“I had to! The paddle was—my clothes were too heavy—we’d never—”

“You wanted to show yourself to me, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“I know you did, Freda. Admit it. Lying is a far worse sin than lust.” He looks up to the sky and then lifts one hand and turns in a circle. “It’s only me and God here, Freda. God will forgive a lustful heart, but he does not so easily forgive a liar.”

“How do you know what God will forgive?” Anger is bubbling up through my fear now. “You are not Semper!” I shout it at him, but before the words have fallen from my mouth I know I’ve made a mistake. I see it in the way his body straightens and tenses, in the way his jaw sets. In the way his eyes widen then narrow. In the way his breathing quickens.

“I thought you could be saved, but I was wrong. You spent too long among the mutants. You’re no better than one of them now. No better than an animal.” His hungry eyes rove over my naked body, following every curve.

I snatch up my soaking wet shirt and hold its chilly weight against me. “You’re wrong, Tynan. I’m still First Wife. And you are just a farmer’s son. It’s you who has forgotten yourself. You should be turning away, as any decent man would.”

Although this makes him pause, it has a reverse effect. After a second, his angry frown twists into a shaky grin.

“First Wife? Unless I’m mistaken, to be First Wife you have to be married to a Semper.” He wheels around and begins shouting at the entirety of the bay around us. “But there is no Semper! Semper is dead!”

He stops and faces me again, staring pointedly at my eyes.

“Semper died in the glory of God’s wrath, trying to finish God’s work of cleansing the world, destroying the unrighteous.”

It takes me a moment, but I understand he means Darius, not Dane.

He takes one step toward the back of the boat, and I see he is positioning himself to leap around it and pounce on me. I move one step away, keeping the boat between us. Perhaps I can keep talking and calm him enough so he won’t hurt me. This time.

“Tynan, do you consider yourself righteous?”

“Of course.”

“Then you should do as a pious man would and turn away while I clothe myself.”

“There is no need to clothe yourself anymore, Freda. Animals have no need of clothing.”

“I am no animal. I am a Southshawan girl, First—”

“Do not claim to be First Wife again!” he screams. “Dane was never Semper. He forfeited his right to that title when he fornicated with the mutant girl.” Tynan takes another step to stand at the very tail of the boat.

“He never did,” I plead, but Tynan has believed all Darius’ lies.

I step back once more to keep distance between us, but he closes with another small step. My heart is fluttering. I don’t think I can stop him with words. But I must try.

I grip the wet shirt tighter. “Please,” I ask, “please give me a moment to put on my clothes.”

“There is no need for that anymore,” he hisses. “I see through you, Freda. You could put on a thousand pounds of clothing, but I see your soul is empty. God has abandoned you, as you abandoned Him.”

My fear turns to desperation. I glance around for anything—a rock, a stick—anything. But all I have is words.

“If Dane was never truly Semper,” I say, “then that would make Darius the thirteenth Semper, wouldn’t it? And Darius said that the prophecy predicted that the thirteenth Semper would bring about the downfall of Southshaw.”

Anger swells up in his red cheeks again and flashes in his eyes, and he growls as he leaps at me.

I scream and throw my wet shirt at him, and it slaps into his face. He slips as I turn and run up the shore, but I get only a few yards before he slams into my back and we tumble to the soft, grassy earth. He’s growling and grunting like a wild dog.

He pushes me down and throws his weight on top of me, then reaches around and with one strong hand pries me from the ground and rolls me onto my back. In an instant, his strength has twisted me so he sits astride my waist. His heavy bulk pins me to the ground, and the sharp tips of grass and small twigs poke into my back.

I flail my hands up at his face, but he fends off my blows with one hand. I buck and try to throw him off, but his weight is too heavy. I kick up my knees, but all he feels is the soft flat of my thighs on his back.

His left hand raises and then comes down hard on my cheek with a growling yell. Pain blinds me like a burning stick in my eyes. His bruising hand gropes my breast.

In my blindness, I flail my hands out, trying to find anything I can use as a weapon. My left hand finds a thick rock, and without pausing I grab it and throw it up aiming for his head again. Instead, it bashes into his shoulder, and I ready myself to try again but instead hear a roar of pain and rage, his body recoiling.

In that half moment, I buck up and throw him off, rolling away in the dirt and scrambling to my feet. His hand catches my ankle, and I sprawl onto my face, right next to the forgotten paddle.

Grasping it with both hands, I roll wild, swinging it upward with all my strength. It hits him and shivers with a bone-rattling thud. He falls backwards, and I scramble to my feet to see him on one knee, holding his shoulder and recovering to stand again. I don’t wait. I hit him again, this time aiming for his head.

The paddle is light, but I swing it sideways and fast. He sees it coming and dodges. The blade of the paddle misses his head but digs hard into his wounded shoulder. He gurgles, and his eyes roll as he crumples to his side, gripping the spot where I hit him.

I raise the paddle and hit him again, and this time he can’t dodge. As I strike the side of his head, his body goes limp and falls to the dirt. I stand over him for a moment, and my frantic gasping melts into uncontrolled sobbing. His head bleeds a little. He seems to be breathing. His eyes are closed.

I toss the paddle away. This is not what I wanted. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to lose Dane. I didn’t want to be here, alone, so far from everything. I look up at the lonely mountaintop, close enough to reach its foot in less than a day, and I hate it. I hate myself. I hate being torn in two.

Tynan lies motionless in the dirt. If I were Lupay or Dane, I’d strangle him. I wouldn’t let him live another second. After all he’s done, I don’t think anyone would think poorly of me for it. But I am not any of those people, and as I look at him, I can’t even envision my hands around his throat.

It makes me feel weak, this inability to kill him. Weak and guilty.
Dane
, I think,
I am sorry. After what he did to you, I should be able to exact justice for your murder.

I look down on Tynan with revulsion and anger. If not for him, I would not be here. Dane would not be dead. What other atrocities did he commit during the war on Tawtrukk for which he should be punished?

He lies there in the dirt, breathing, while Dane’s body is gone, burned to ashes in a lonely, concrete ruin. I stoke my anger with these thoughts. I clench my fists, imagining the soft flesh of Tynan’s neck in my fingers. I growl at him.

But I just can’t get my anger to burn hot enough to become the rage required to take his life.

I don’t pity him. And I would not be sorry if wild animals found him and ate him alive while he lay here. But I can’t be the one to kill him. I just can’t do it.

I whisper, “I’m sorry, Dane,” as tears swell up again and drop from my cheeks to the wet, grassy dirt next to Tynan’s head.

I turn to stare back across the open water, which is now gusting with white-capped waves twice as high as the one that flipped us. I’d never make it back to my friends alive.

I look down at Tynan. I would rather die alone in the wild, eaten by wild dogs, than rely on him for my survival again.

I cannot go back.

I cannot stay here.

I look up at the lonely mountain. I must keep on, must try to find what the ancients left for me. I’ll probably die within a few days anyway, but God willing, I’ll survive long enough to find some understanding at least.

Even though I would not mourn if Tynan were eaten by wild animals, I cannot bear to leave him exposed and vulnerable. I drag the boat to where he lies and flip it over, spilling out the water. I drag it over his body, upside-down. If I could hide inside from wild dogs, maybe he can do the same. And maybe he’ll feel obliged for my mercy.

When I grab his feet to shove them into one of the openings, I find he’s got his big hunting knife strapped to his thigh with thin, leather cord. I put up a wall in my mind to stop my imagination from thinking what might have happened if he’d decided to use it a few minutes ago, and I take the knife along with its sheath and the cord. I look through his pockets, but all I find is a soaked cloth folded around a few bites of soggy jerky. If he carried anything else, it’s lost at the bottom of the water.

I lift his feet into the open hole, but I can’t push him very far in. I don’t know how long he will be unconscious, but I hope it will be long enough for me to get very far away.

The whole time I’m shoving him around, he doesn’t wake or groan or give any sign of life other than shallow breaths and continuing to bleed from where I hit him with the paddle. It’s not a lot of blood, but a steady trickle drips down his cheek and into his hair. His injured shoulder is worse than I’d thought, and the skin around the wound is red and hot.

When I’ve done all I can, I shove my feet into my wet boots and cinch my wrap around my breasts, clasping it tight. I pick up my shirt and pants, squeeze them out, and drape them over my shoulders. Their cold wetness weighs me down, but the sun is still high in the sky and will dry them soon. There is no need to put them on right now.

After one deep breath, I push into a tall stand of brittle reeds. In a few minutes, I’ve broken through them and out into an open, flat, grassy area stretching a half mile ahead. At its far end is a raised walkway of gravel and weeds, with two metal rails stretching off into the distance. I recognize this as what Micktuk called a train track. This one points directly at the lonely mountain.

Along that path, however, lies another ruined city. And this one hasn’t been scouted out by Lupay and Patrick.