Untitled Agenda 21 Sequel (9781476746852) (17 page)

And then there was another sound, a distant, faint but desperate sound. It was the sound of a woman. Was she crying or shouting? Joan couldn't be sure what it was. She leaned forward, listened harder.

Maybe it was Emmeline.

W
e were all outside, in front of the cave's black opening. The cool morning air coming from the cave felt like the river water washing over my clean skin.

“Tonight we forage.” Paul looked up through the tree branches. “Lots of clouds today. And the moon will be low.”

“Forage?” I asked Paul. “Tonight
we
forage?”

“We,” he answered. “You and me. The night walk is getting harder for Ingrid, and David still needs to rest. I know he's getting better but I don't want him to have any setbacks.”

I looked at David as he cuddled Elsa. Paul was right. I could tell from the way he moved his arm that it still bothered him a little.

“How do we gather food? How dangerous is it?” The thought of venturing back in the direction of the commune and the Compound made me uneasy. But I couldn't deny it; we needed fresh food.

Micah, done gathering twigs for the fire pit, moved closer to us. He was always curious. I loved that about him.

“The commune is an accessible distance from here. But we have to plan to get there when it's dark and the workers are asleep.”

“Don't you worry about leaving a path in the woods? A path that would lead guards back here?”

“The forest destroys any path with plants that grow quickly. Ferns, for example. And falling leaves quickly cover footprints. And, when we go to the river for water, we walk on the stones I scattered so no trail is created.”

He had thought of everything.

“What time of day will we leave?”

“Afternoon. We'll walk through the woods. We get there around dusk.”

“I think it took us longer than that to get from the commune to here,” I said.

“You followed the water and it meanders. It's not far as the crow flies,” Paul said.

Meanders
. That sounded so casual, so carefree. Our painful, rushed escape was anything but casual and carefree.

Micah looked at me. “Where are you going?” His voice was frail, thin, worried.

“It's all right,” Paul said. “We're not going away for long.” He must have heard the worry in Micah's voice.

“But where are you going?” Micah persisted.

“The more important question is ‘Why are you going? Always ask why. Where doesn't matter as much as why.”

Micah gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders. “All right.
Why
are you going?” Paul had the wisdom that comes with age, while Micah had the curiosity of youth, and I loved seeing them interact.

“We're going for food. Our rations are low and we now have more people to feed.”

I knew he was talking about us. My shoulders slumped with the weight of that responsibility.

“But if we have more people to feed, that means we have more people to help us forage,” Paul said in his even, soft voice. “Does that make sense? Does that balance out everything?”

I knew he was directing that at me, making sure I saw the positive part of the situation. I raised my eyes and looked at him. He was smiling. The mud he still wore on his face cracked along the smile lines.

“We take empty sacks with us. We wait till dark. The guards ring a bell. That's the signal for the workers to go into their tents. Then the night sounds start.”

“What are the night sounds?” I asked.

“Owls hoot. Raccoons screech. The workers snore. The night is full of noises. Eventually the dusk-to-dawn guards will also sleep. They always do. That's when we slip in, along the edge of the rows. We'll pick as much as we can, and fill our sacks with all we can carry. We'll slip away before dawn and start the long walk back.”

“I'm going with you,” Micah said. “Three people can carry more than two.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

“No, Micah, you can't. It's too dangerous,” I said.

Paul turned to me intently. “Emmeline, what is more dangerous? Foraging? Or not knowing why and how to forage? It's not just about picking crops that don't belong to you, it's about knowing how to cautiously enter an unsafe area without being detected, gather food left on the plants, and return safely. It's a skill you will all need to survive.”

Indeed, what was more dangerous? I knew that Paul was right.

I looked at Micah. He returned my gaze without blinking. This child trusted me. What was more important? That I keep him safe, confined, and protected? Or that I let him explore and learn? Mother had always kept me protected. But did her shielding me ever really help?

I took a deep breath. David came over, sat beside me, and put Elsa in my lap. The soles of her feet had dirt on them. I brushed it off and saw the healthy pinkness of her skin.

I took a deep breath and squeezed Micah's hand.

“Yes, Micah, yes. You can come.”

M
icah was so excited, he barely slept. But then, I hadn't either. The best we could do was lie quietly, and even that was hard for eight-year-old Micah.

“Is it time to leave yet?” He asked the same question over and over again. “Is it time to leave yet? Is it time to leave yet?” Every time he asked, he shook my shoulder. The answer was always the same: “When Paul says so.” But he would ask again. “Is it time to leave yet?”

“You ask that question one more time,” I finally told him, “You're not coming along!”

He was silent immediately. I wished I had thought of that sooner! He still tossed and turned, but at least he was quiet.

Finally Paul came to us. “It's time,” he said.

Ingrid gave us sacks made of rough cloth that smelled like old brown grass. Inside were bits of dried meat. Jerky, Paul called it. I had never seen anything like those hard, shriveled brown bits. Paul said it was dried squirrel. He had a strange thing slung over his shoulder.

“Bow and arrows,” he said. “I don't have many arrows left. Hope I don't have to use any on this trip. Emmy, bring along your knife.
When we get back, I'll make Micah some kind of weapon. Every boy should have a weapon. Maybe a spear. Should have thought of that sooner.”

Bows and arrows, spears, and jerky were all new to me. I had as much to learn as Micah. I slipped my knife into the sack. Then I made David promise three times to take good care of Elsa. Paul waited patiently for a while but then said, “It's time to go, Emmy. Now.”

He said
now
quietly but firmly. I gave Elsa and David one last kiss on their foreheads and touched my hand to my heart.

We stepped away from the cave and started into the woods, away from the river. Flowing water had marked our path ever since we escaped the Compound. Now we were leaving it behind.

Every few steps I looked over my shoulder at Elsa, David, and Ingrid. But soon we were in the thick woods and I could only see trees behind me, in front of me, all around me.

The woods were dim. Sunlight filtered through and shadows danced as the leaves moved with the breeze. Micah followed behind Paul; I followed behind Micah. Single file, step by step, we went uphill and downhill. This land was a continuous rolling of ups and downs.

Paul stepped around logs instead of over them. “Avoiding snakes,” he said over his shoulder. “Snakes live under logs and on stones.”

“Boa constrictors?” Micah asked.

“No. Copperheads,” Paul said.

“Copperheads?” I walked a wide berth around logs.

“A poisonous snake with uneven bands of light brown and dark brown. Looks like a pile of fallen leaves.”

Now every pile of leaves was suspect. Every log. Every stone. Every step.

We kept walking.

Paul stopped often to point out something.

“That's poison ivy. Leaves of three, let them be.”

We rested once. Just once.

“These are morels. Mushrooms. Very good eating.” He plucked the oddly shaped brown things and put them in his sack.

We walked on.

“Ramps.” He pulled the plants from the soft soil. They had green leaves and white stalks. “The whole plant is edible.” The green smell was strong, inviting. He put them into his sack. Micah watched, then pulled more ramps from the dirt, shook them off, and put them in his sack. He was already getting into his role as a young hunter-gatherer. I found some ramps, too.

“Over there,” Paul pointed. “A buck.” I saw a large animal, brown, with a thick body and wide chest. It had two large curved horns, one on either side of its head, with smaller spikes off the main horns. “An eight-pointer. Good one. If we were closer to home, I'd shoot him for the meat and the fur. Too far to haul him back, though.” The animal gave a snort, perked its ears, and with a flick of its white, pointed tail, ran into the shadows. I don't know why, but I felt sad watching it run from us. I didn't want to be feared.

Dusk began to creep in on its dirty little feet. Slowly, the light faded. Birds twittered, settling into resting places in the branches.

Then, there it was, in the distance ahead of us: the flat brown fields of the farm commune. The workers were just dots moving along the rows. Little dots, so small that it was easy to forget that they were people.

“We'll move a little closer. Then we'll wait for darkness,” Paul said.

Clouds with dark underbellies lay low on the horizon. As the sun slipped away, the gray-white moon appeared, a narrow sliver, like a torn fingernail.

Micah curled up, a warm little boy, and leaned against me. Soon his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. In the distance, there was a low rumble of thunder, and a faraway white flash of lightning. The air grew cooler, the thunder closer.

“Rain,” Paul said. “That's a good thing.”

“A good thing? Why?”

“When it storms, few workers will leave their tents for any reason. The guards will seek shelter, too, and keep the flaps closed to stay dry.”

The first drops of rain pinged against the leaves, my arms, and my legs. Micah sat up, awake now.

The rain came harder, the thunder louder. “Move away from the trees,” Paul said. He stood and walked toward the field of food.

A field of food
.

The words were like music. Lightning flashed cloud to cloud in jagged lines. Micah clung to my hand. They were wet and slippery together. Our sacks were damp, the smell of wet cloth even more pungent.

The workers were gone from the field. The tents, a straight row of triangles along the end of the field, were being pummeled by the rain. It sounded like a thousand drumbeats. Thunder growled along the horizon.

We stood at the edge of the field. At our feet were plants and food, ours for the taking. “We will spread out. Emmeline, stay where you are. I'll go to the far end of the row; Micah will be halfway between us.” Paul and Micah moved away from me, and I was alone. I could barely see them in the dark.

I began picking. The peas were firm in their pods, little bulges beneath the hull. It was easy to snap them from the vine. Hold the plant with one hand, pick with the other. Twist, pull, twist, pull. My sack was an open mouth, waiting to be filled. I did not see the man come out of his tent. I did not hear him walking toward me.

Twist, pull, twist, pull. I allowed myself to eat one or two of them as I worked.

Twist, pull. Fill the sack.

Then I saw bare feet next to me, wet and muddy, toes splayed against the dirt. A heavy metal ball and chain was attached to a leather collar around his ankle. The rain shimmered on the metal and ran down the ball in little streams.

I looked up. The man towered over me while I was bent as though praying over the plants. It was too dark to see his face. I felt pressure in my chest, as though it was being squeezed by a giant hand. Micah and Paul were too far away for me to be able to warn them. I tried, but no sound came out of me. The peas in my hand fell to the ground. My fingers had lost their strength; my arms were limp. If this man saw me, maybe a guard would, too. Oh, dear sweet Jesus, I must not be seen by a guard.

“Stand up,” he said. His voice was familiar.

My legs had no strength, would not straighten. I could not stand.

“Stand up.” Where had I heard that voice before?

I felt a hand on my shoulder. My clothes were wet, clinging to me. How far away were Paul and Micah?

The hand tugged on my arm, pulling me upright. The man and I stood face-to-face. In a flicker of lightning, I saw his hair, his eyes, and his forehead. I knew him.

It was George, the first partner the Authorities had assigned to me.

He was Elsa's father.

H
e wasn't as large as I remembered. His hair had thinned and his shoulders weren't as broad. It was as if all of him had shrunken, been reduced somehow.

“Emmeline?” George's voice was shaking, unsure. “Oh my God, Emmeline. Is that really you? How did you get here?” He took a step closer, his arms reaching for me. The metal ball dragged behind him. I felt and heard his desperation. I took a step back and fought the urge to run. Would the guard hear him? I looked around. I saw no one.

It couldn't be George standing in front of me. It just couldn't be. The Authorities told me he and Father were dead. “We regret to inform you . . .” they had said, but there had been no regret, no sorrow or pity in their voices, and no expressions on their faces. None. Mother had wailed, her cries so shrill I felt like they were cutting my skin. I had asked to see their bodies but the Authorities said that wasn't possible. They said it was a bus-box accident, that the brakes had failed going downhill. But now here he was, in front of me. If he was alive, maybe Father was, too. I looked around, hoping to see the dark shadow of another man, hoping I'd see Father.