Taken (6 page)

“Look, Emma, I need to peek at one record. It will only take a few minutes.”

“Whose record?”

“My mother’s.”

“Is she the one that kept something from you?”

“Yes. Her and Blaine.” I know I can trust Emma, and so I pull the letter that has been haunting me for days from my pocket and pass it to her. She reads it carefully, her eyes widening, and then her hands flip it over, searching for more words as she comes to its end.

“Where’s the rest?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it won’t be listed in her scroll, I can tell you that much.”

“But some answers might be.” I take the scroll, fold it, and return it to my pocket. I can feel a headache starting between my eyes and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“I really don’t think you’ll find anything,” Emma says.

“I still have to try. I need to know what she’s talking about, or I’m going to go crazy.”

“Okay. Tomorrow morning my mother has a house visit. We can check then, but quickly.”

“Thank you, Emma.”

She stands and offers me an arm. “We should head back. Mohassit’s ceremony is tonight and the feast is probably starting soon.”

Another boy turning eighteen. Another life to be lost. I’m not close to Mohassit, but I know him well enough from the market. He works in the livestock fields, tending sheep and cattle. He’s thin and frail and manages to get sick more often than anyone I know in Claysoot. The odds seem always stacked against him, and yet somehow, he refused to give in to them. Unfortunately, I know he will not beat the odds tonight.

We gather up the gear and head back to town. By the time we’ve dropped everything off at my place, the sun is starting to set. As we approach the Council Bell, it becomes obvious that something is wrong. People are gathered as usual, but the group is quiet. No one is huddled around the bonfire or feasting on the food. Instead, everyone is standing rigid and staring up the road toward the hunting trailhead. Emma and I follow their gaze and when we see it, we freeze.

Two boys are carrying a stretcher from the woods. On it is a body, black and crisp, the features scorched beyond recognition. But there is no mistaking that frail, thin frame, no second-guessing who would have risked the Wall today. He was likely late to arrive at his ceremonial dinner. And then the search party went out. And found him somewhere along the base of the Wall, where all the climbers reappear. Dead.

There will be no Heist tonight but a funeral instead.

SEVEN

IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG FOR
the funeral to commence. Maude keeps the bonfire lit, and the boys carrying the stretcher—one of whom I recognize to be Mohassit’s younger brother—add the body to the flames.

Emma stands very close to me, her arm hooked around my left elbow. Sasha must be nearby, because Kale finds us in the crowd and tugs on my other arm. I lift her and she buries her face in my neck. People hang their heads; friends and family cry. When Maude stands up, everyone grows still.

“Let us have a moment of silence,” she calls out solemnly, “for Mohassit Gilcress, who, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, was lost to the Wall.”

I drop my chin into my chest, but the moment of silence never begins. A voice breaks across the crowd.

“To the Heist!” it shouts frantically. “He wasn’t lost to the Wall. He was lost to the Heist!” A figure emerges near the bell. It’s Mohassit’s mother. She is smaller than even Mohassit was, and frailer still. The brown tunic she is wearing nearly drowns her.

“The Wall may have killed him,” she continues, “but he was lost to the Heist. They all are. Whether they disappear or run straight to their own deaths, that damn Heist is the reason we lose them. I curse it, and I curse this place for stealing our boys from us. I hate this place. I hate it!”

She’s a mess now, hiccups rising to her throat. She crumples to the ground and shudders like a lost child, until her remaining son pulls her into his arms, much as if he were the mother, and consoles her. Emma presses her face against my shoulder. My sleeve grows damp and I know she’s started crying. Many are.

“As much as death is a part of living, the Heist is a part of life,” Maude explains. “We may not understand it. We may not find it fair. But we cannot be at peace with our ways, or those lost to us, if we curse the very place we call home. Let us remember Mohassit and the joy he brought into our lives.”

Mohassit’s mother nods feverishly, her son still holding her in his arms. “A moment of silence,” she prompts, and this time, the crowd bows their heads in remembrance.

Several people then step forward to say a word or two about Mohassit: memories, thanks, things they will miss. Kale has fallen asleep by now, and so has my arm. I have to shift her to my other side, and in turn, am forced to shake Emma off. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, brushing her tears away and then smiling at me as she strokes Kale’s blond curls. It’s funny standing there, the three of us. Almost nice. Almost like a family. I wonder if in a different life, in a place without a Heist, if such a thing even exists, I might actually want to be a father one day.

When the funeral ends and the bonfire is put out, the sun has long since set. People begin to filter back home. Sasha finds us and lifts Kale from my arms but not before extending an invitation for drinks. With our spirits low and no Heist to fill the evening, we agree.

Sasha puts Kale to bed and then pulls out a jug of ale, pouring three tall drinks. After several rounds of Little Lie, a game where you tell four truths and one lie and those unable to spot the farce drink in defeat, we have forgotten the lull of the funeral and are light-headed and giggling.

“You lit your own hair on fire trying to light candles on a matchup. That’s the lie,” Emma says to Sasha.

“No way that’s it,” I say. “I’m going with that story about how you ate so many strawberries as a child that you got sick for a week. I know for a fact you hate berries and wouldn’t have touched them to begin with.”

Sasha chuckles. “You’re both wrong. I do hate berries, but it’s because of that childhood trauma, and I completely singed off half my hair during one of my first slatings.”

Emma and I groan in disappointment. “So which one was the lie?” Emma asks.

“The I-can’t-climb-a-tree statement. I know I don’t come across as very adventurous, but I can actually shinny up a tree trunk without much trouble.”

Emma and I exchange doubtful looks.

“Oh, shut it, you two. I’ll show you sometime when it’s not pitch-dark out . . . and when we haven’t had quite so much ale. Now drink up.” We do, emptying our mugs entirely. Somehow, Emma and I are terrible at this game, and Sasha, who still has half a mug left, is quite the trickster.

We play a few more rounds, in which I learn that Emma is terrified of midwifing, that she can deal with blood and guts, but the idea of delivering a child scares her senseless, and that Sasha, despite selling herbs at the market, is a self-proclaimed failure as a cook. By the time Emma and I leave Sasha’s, our heads are spinning and the trip home seems far more difficult than it ought to.

I walk Emma to her place, the two of us swerving about the dirt path like dry leaves on a windy day. Emma is humming to herself, spinning in graceful circles, her arms outstretched. While tipping her head back to look at the stars, she stumbles and bangs her knee against the rocks making up her front stoop.

“Look, I’m bleeding!” she announces almost gleefully. It’s not funny that she’s hurt, but I’m smiling anyway.

“You okay?” I ask, eyeing the smear on her knee.

She nods. “Uh-huh. Doesn’t even hurt.” It’s amazing how ale will do that to you, wipe all the pain away and replace it with a mesmerizing dizziness.

“Here,” I say, offering her a hand. She’s lighter than I expect, and I pull her straight into my chest without meaning to. She stands there, her hands resting over my heart, and stares up at me. Everything outside of her seems to be twisting, drifting in and out of view. Is it the ale, causing my world to spin or her? I take her hands in mine. I think of doing something, anything, but we just stand there, our fingers clutched together and our eyes locked.

A door slams somewhere in town, and, startled, we break apart.

“Well,” Emma says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ll see you tomorrow? Meet at the Clinic?”

“Sure. If we feel well enough.”

“Okay.” She grins at me, another smile I am unable to completely read. She looks confused and happy at the same time. And then she slips into the house, latching the door before I can even attempt to say good night.

EIGHT

I AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING
feeling groggy and weak. There’s a subtle pain pulsing behind my temples and my mouth is dry. I groan as I pull myself out of bed. I eat some bread, which nearly comes back up, and eventually give up on food and splash water on my face instead. I sit at the table, my head pressed against the grain, and close my eyes.

Will she pretend nothing happened? Will she even remember that moment, that second when something clearly danced between us? I remember, but maybe all that magic was in my head, a trick of the alcohol. Maybe I felt something because I’m always looking for feelings. Without them, I don’t know how to act. Either way, had it not been for that slammed door, perhaps there would have been more to last night.

Then again, maybe it’s better that there wasn’t. The details would be a blur now anyway, the lines between real and imagined lost in the shadowy corners of my hangover. I like remembering the times I spend with Emma. I like to know they are real and honest. Ale has a way of turning both such things into dazzling illusions.

After another unsuccessful attempt to eat some bread, I change into clean clothes and head out. Except for Emma, the Clinic is empty when I arrive. She’s sitting at the back of the room, searching through tall shelves that house hundreds of scrolls.

“Morning,” she exclaims, bright and chipper. Clearly the ale did not punish her as it did me.

“Morning.” I slump into a chair and rub my temples. Emma hands me a revolting wad that looks like nothing more than weeds.

“It will clear the headache. Promise. Mine’s gone.” So she did feel ill this morning after all.

The concoction tastes even worse than it looks, but I force it down and within several minutes, the pain in my skull is indeed subsiding. I must look better, because Emma flops into the seat opposite me and tosses me a scroll.

“That’s her record,” she says. It seems rather small, and when I look at her apprehensively, she adds, “It’s all we have.”

I roll it open and slide some clay jars over the edges to keep the parchment from curling in on itself. Emma and I bend over and begin reading. The entire thing is a list, dates followed by brief descriptions written by Carter and various Clinic workers from earlier years. At the very top is my mother’s name,
Sara Burke
.

Year 11, January 3: born to Sylvia Cane, healthy

Year 14, February 10: treated for bad cough

Year 14, February 13: treated again for cough, seems to be recovering

Year 21, August 14: broken bones set in wrist from fall

Year 29, June 23: gives birth to boy (Blaine Weathersby), healthy

Year 30, June 23: gives birth to boy (Gray Weathersby), sickly, will need additional care

Year 44, November 8: treated for high fever and cough

Year 44, December 1: diagnosed with pneumonia

Year 44, December 21: health failing, receiving treatment via house visits

Year 44, December 27: patient lost

The entries stop here. No item is elaborated on, no comments scrawled in the margins. I push the weights off the scroll in frustration, and it springs back together.

“I told you I didn’t think you’d find anything,” Emma says heavily. “We don’t keep very detailed records, only the bare minimum, in case we need to check something against a patient’s family tree.”

“Oh, good idea. Can I compare these dates to the ones in my scroll? And Blaine’s?”

“I don’t see the point.”

“Please. This can’t be all there is.”

Emma sighs, but then returns to the shelf and pulls down two more scrolls. Blaine’s has but two dates: his birth, as noted in our mother’s scroll, and his Heist. Mine also has my birth date, one year to the day later than Blaine’s, but dozens of other entries. The first thirteen alone document house visits from when I was an infant, sick and feeble. I read through the later notations, recounting my more recent trips to the Clinic for treatments of hunting injuries and accidents. I’m remarking at what a healthy child Blaine was in comparison to me, when Emma interrupts my thoughts.

“Gray?” I look up and find her sitting at Carter’s desk. “I think you should see this.”

“What is it?”

“Well you mentioned comparing records and I thought maybe, just maybe, I should check some of my mother’s personal ones.”

“She keeps personal records?”

“It’s her notebook from house visits.” She holds up a leather book with
Year 29
written on its cover. “She brings them with her, records any necessary information, and then copies them into the scrolls later. That way, if she makes multiple stops before returning to the Clinic, nothing gets forgotten or left out.”

“Okay, well let me see,” I say.

Emma hesitates, her lips pinched as though she has something to say but can’t find the nerve to spit it out. She looks over the page again and finally pushes the notebook into my outstretched hands. “Read here.”