The Wordsmith

CHAPTER 5

LETTA didn’t sleep well that night. Her dreams were full of panic, and more than once she shot up in bed, convinced there was someone in the room. By the time morning came, she was relieved to be able to get up.

She tiptoed out of the house, going by the back door, pulling it quietly behind her, careful not to wake Marlo. The streets were quiet. A shrew crossed her path, darting by only a stride from her ankle. She hated shrews. If they were bigger, Benjamin had once told Letta, they would be one of the most feared animals on the planet. She watched it go, its tapering snout investigating every stone on the road. Like all animals, it was protected in Ark. It reminded her of Marlo’s dream. Her stomach tightened every time she thought of Daniel. Was there a wolf out there following his scent even now? How long could he last without food and water?

Her feet seemed to find the path to the beach all on their own. Fifteen minutes later she was standing on the sand, watching the waves break on the rocks. She turned and walked into the wind, feeling it lap her face and pull her hair back so that it streamed behind her. The sea mist settled on her warm skin. It feels like I’ve been crying, she thought, wiping the moisture away.

What would Benjamin do? she wondered. Would he help Marlo? Would he talk to Desecrators? What would her parents do? She knew so little about them.

Both her parents were experienced sailors. They had been in the leading team John Noa had put together to explore the ocean and see if they could find land. When Noa called off the exploration, convinced that they were the last humans to survive, her parents had gone out one last time, against John Noa’s express orders. Benjamin had always said that they weren’t rebels just romantics, idealists. They had set off like innocent children, sure they would find other places.

‘They had it all mapped out,’ Benjamin had told her sadly. ‘Charts and compasses and who knows what else. Thirty days, your mother told me. They would sail for thirty days and if they found nothing turn around and come home. Sixty days in all. They had taken enough food and water to last that long.’

Benjamin still didn’t like to talk about them and had warned Letta not to mention them outside the house.

‘John Noa was very disappointed,’ he told her once. ‘Disappointed that they had not listened to him.’

And Letta had taken his words to heart. She didn’t ask about them, much as she longed to know more.

The sound of male voices jolted her out of her reverie. She jumped, her pulse quickening. But it was only the water workers coming to start filling the barrels of salt water, destined for the water tower on the far side of town where it would be cleaned and purified for drinking.

She turned and looked out to the horizon. Why hadn’t her parents come back? They had left her with such emptiness inside, an enormous crater that wouldn’t be filled.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to see a small sailboat suddenly appear on that blue-grey canvas. She’d always imagined their boat as having silver sails. How fanciful was that? And yet she couldn’t picture it any other way. Silver sails, a tall dark man hauling on the main sail, beside him a smaller woman with golden hair and an upturned nose, just like her own. They’d sail right in and then suddenly he would see her. The rope would fall from his hands. Her mother would turn to see what had distracted him and …

She shook her head. She was getting too old for these daydreams. She had real things to worry about. Reluctantly, she let the imagined boat go and turned her mind to the fugitive living under her roof.

He wasn’t getting any better, she was sure of that. If she did go on Friday, if she did meet the Desecrators, at least they could come and take him. And maybe they could help Daniel. She tried to persuade herself that if she did go, it would be for Daniel. Marlo was a Desecrator. She should feel no need to help him, and yet …

He wasn’t what she imagined a Desecrator would be like. He was just ordinary. Ordinary and nice. She had enjoyed talking to him when he was well and able to joke with her. She wasn’t used to talking to people her own age and to someone who didn’t talk List. His language was amazing. She knew, of course, that older people had good language, though they were forbidden to use it. She tried to imagine how he had been reared, in hiding obviously, surrounded by people who spoke whatever way they wanted to. She felt a twinge of envy. She loved Ark but she hated List. She had never really admitted that before, she thought, bending to pick up a shell. Not even to herself.

She raised her arm and threw the shell hard, towards the sea, but it fell short, surfing the sand and coming to rest in a small hollow, safe from the waves. No. She couldn’t imagine it. Besides, she had always been taught that words were the root of evil. Before the Melting, people had used all the words there were, and it did nothing to save them. John Noa would say that they talked themselves into the disasters that they created. The animals lived peacefully on the planet, doing no harm, living in harmony with nature. Man was the one who spoiled everything. Man and his words.

She dragged her toe in the sand making a narrow trench. Tomorrow she would go to the wheat field. She couldn’t see any other way forward. She looked out to the horizon again. Sometimes people didn’t have any choice about which road they took. She knew that now. She raised her hand and saluted them, as she always did, and turned for home.

Marlo was worse, much worse. She found him tangled in a damp sheet, raving incoherently. His lips were caked and dry, so dry she could see the tiny fissures in them. His eyes rolled in his head and he kept trying to sit up. His words were slurred and delivered in that strange, half-pitched whine.

Tea, she thought. I’ll make him tea and sponge him down. That will help. She rushed out of the room. She wasn’t a healer. What if he died?

In the living area, she found the bowl she needed and half-filled it from her precious water supply. Bowl. Water. Flannel. She was beginning to feel feverish herself. What else? The tea. She still had some ginger. She hunted around furiously. Not in the cupboard where she kept such things. Where else could it be? Her breath caught in her throat. There was no ginger. The tea was no good without it. The healer – she would go and talk to him. He might help her. She raced out through the shop, pulling the heavy front door behind her. The healer’s shop was on the other side of the road. She hurtled across and was just about to bang on the door when it opened. The healer, John Lurt, stood there, his long face drawn and grey.

‘Yes?’ he said, raising one eyebrow.

‘Help,’ Letta said. ‘I need help.’

‘Come,’ he said and stood back to let her through.

The healer’s shop was one of the houses designed by the Green Warriors just before the Melting. A perfect square, thirty strides on each side, made from a plastic resin invented in the last decade before the Melting. It was warm in winter and cool in summer, requiring almost no energy to run, unlike Benjamin’s porous house across the road. The herbs and other remedies hung from the ceiling in great clumps, and shelves covered the walls, displaying the familiar brown paper twists the healer used to package his wares. The place smelt dry and medicinal, Letta thought, as she went to stand at the counter. The healer followed her, and then resting one hand on the counter, he turned to face her. His eyes were steely, Letta thought, the pupils small and wary. He leaned his head towards her.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Fever,’ Letta said.

‘You?’ the man replied, scrutinising her face.

‘No,’ Letta said. ‘Boy.’

The man turned and pulled down his coat from a hook near by.

‘I go,’ he said.

‘No,’ Letta said, as firmly as she could. ‘No go.’

The man sighed.

‘Must see,’ he said. ‘Who sick?’

Letta swallowed hard. ‘Please help,’ she said again.

There was silence for a minute. John Lurt was waiting for an explanation.

‘Who sick?’ he said again, and for the first time she noticed the hardness in his words, the way he dropped them sparingly, as though they were too heavy to carry any more.

This had been a mistake, she thought. A mistake. The word bounced in the space between her and the healer.

‘Nobody,’ she said, backing out. ‘Nobody.’

Then she went through the door as quickly as she could, feeling his eyes following her. She ran across the street, her mind racing. She would go back in and lock up the shop. Then she could concentrate on taking care of Marlo.

She pushed open the front door, berating herself for having been so careless in leaving it open in the first instance.

Mrs Truckle was standing at the counter. ‘Letta!’ she said. ‘Need two more boxes.’ Then, seeing Letta’s expression, she continued apologetically, ‘Door open. Walked in.’

‘Yes,’ Letta said quickly. ‘Two more. Have here.’ She had forgotten to add them to the order Mrs Truckle had asked for. She reached under the counter and pulled them out.

‘You good?’ Mrs Truckle said gently.

‘Yes,’ Letta lied, ‘good.’

The word wasn’t out of her mouth when she heard an almighty crash overhead. Letta jumped. The two women looked at one another. Mrs Truckle turned her head slowly and looked up towards the stairs.

‘Box,’ Letta said, the words tumbling out. ‘Box fall. Upstairs. I go.’

Mrs Truckle looked anxiously towards the room behind Letta.

‘Be careful, child,’ she said, taking her word boxes. ‘Very careful.’

The old woman touched her hand and Letta, feeling the warmth of that small embrace, wanted to tell Mrs Truckle everything, to hold her and keep her with her. But she knew she couldn’t. She walked to the door with the older woman.

‘Lock now,’ Mrs Truckle said before disappearing into the outside world. Letta did as she said, throwing the bolts as quickly as she could, then tearing through the shop and up the stairs.

He was lying on the floor. She knelt beside him and took his head in her hands. The skin was dry and hot. She jumped up and quickly fixed the bed then kneeling behind him, and gripping him under the arms, she hauled him up. It took all her strength, and even then she felt her back would break from the strain and that her arms would be wrenched from their sockets, but she got him on to the bed. She knelt on the floor to get her breath. Kneeling there on the hard floor she knew that he would not be going to that wheat field the following day.

For the rest of the day, and through the night, she cared for him as the fever raged in his body. She bathed his face, squeezing the little water that she had from the flannel, and wet his lips. She struggled to keep him lying down, tried to stop him shouting in his ravings and was terrified that someone on the street would hear him despite her efforts. Towards dawn, the fever broke, and he opened his eyes.

‘Oh, Marlo,’ she said, relief flowing through her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Have you been there all night?’

She smiled at him.

‘How do you feel?’ she said.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘What day is it?’

‘Friday,’ she said softly.

He went to stand up.

‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Finn will be there and –’

She pushed him back. ‘You can’t go,’ she said. ‘You can hardly stand.’

He turned his face away from her and she could feel his frustration.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go.’

He turned his head slowly and looked at her.

‘No!’ he said. ‘It’s too risky.’

‘It’s risky having you here,’ she said, straightening the bed cover.

He caught her hand. ‘Why are you doing all this?’

His question stumped her. Why was she doing it? Because she didn’t want him banished. No matter what he had done. She knew that was the truth.

‘Never mind that now,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘We need to get food and water. What will happen you when I’m gone? If the fever comes back.’

‘It won’t,’ Marlo said. ‘I will stay in the Monk’s Room.’

She nodded, though she could feel the anxiety building in her. She didn’t want to imagine him cowering in the Monk’s Room burning with fever.

She spent the rest of the morning getting food and drink to leave with him, taking almost nothing for herself. He was still not inclined to eat but she coaxed him to swallow a little bread and a thin vegetable broth. She heard the bells ring eleven times and got ready to leave.

‘I’ll help you to the Monk’s Room,’ she said. ‘And I’ll lock up the shop. You’ll have water and I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Marlo said. ‘You need to look out for yourself. Once the show is over, our people will scatter really quickly, heading off in different directions. Try to find Finn. He’s a big bear with jet-black hair and a beard. Tell him Marlo needs him, but be careful.’

‘I will,’ Letta cut across him impatiently. All this talk was making her even more nervous. ‘It’s time I went,’ she said.

Marlo nodded and put his arm about her neck.

Fifteen minutes later she closed the door on the Monk’s Room. It had taken that long for him to walk with her help the few strides it took to get him there. He collapsed onto the floor and Letta thought his skin was the greyest she had ever seen it.

‘Good luck,’ he’d managed to whisper, before shutting the small door.

Letta walked carefully through the town, eyes downcast, trying not to draw any attention to herself. She turned north at the tailor’s shop and started the long climb to the wheat fields. The day had been cloudy till this, but now the autumn sun erupted from between the clouds, warming her hair. They might not even be there, she told herself. Anything could have happened to make them change their plans. Anything. She kicked a stone out of her way and almost slid on the wet mud. She stopped to get her breath. The potato fields came into focus first, with the potato pickers bent over like lines of crane birds. Letta ignored them and hurried on. She still had no plan. What would she say when she got to the wheat fields? What business had she there?

They would know at once that she was up to no good. She must have been mad to think she could pull this off. Her feet seemed to move of their own volition as her brain screamed at her to stop and change course. She came around the corner and realised she had reached her destination. The wheat fields stretched out on either side of her. The field nearest the road was where the Desecrators planned to be. The long low shed with its innocent flat roof ran along the west side just as Marlo had described within fifty strides from where she stood. From that lofty perch a row of magpies watched the scene unfolding in the field below, their black and white plumage lit bright by the sun. Amongst the waving sea of golden wheat, the men were stripped to the waist, each one carrying a scythe. Letta watched, hypnotised, as they moved through the yellow grain, their scythes swinging in unison, the swish of their razor-sharp blades alongside the tinkling of the shorn stems.

She couldn’t see the supervisor, but he was there somewhere, she knew. She looked at the shed roof again. Marlo’s friends weren’t there. She could go home.

She looked again at the reapers as they swayed from side to side, leaving ribbons of yellow behind them. The feeling of foreboding was everywhere, bearing down on her, making the very air she breathed smell rancid. She turned to leave, glancing one last time at the shed as she did so. One minute the birds were on the roof, the next they had taken to the air with loud screeches, and when Letta refocused her eyes she could see a woman. Letta held her breath. An alien sound filled her ears. Music. Music swirling around her. Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah.

Letta stood shivering in her excitement, her fists clenched, her eyes never straying from the source of the exquisite sound. A tiny, delicate woman playing a saxophone. Her hair billowed about her face in blue-black waves and the sharp edge of her collarbone jutted out from beneath porcelain skin. She wore a black skirt on which were printed enormous old roses, dusky pink, surrounded by soft green leaves. She was in her middle years or older, Letta thought. The instrument itself was a relic from another time and Letta couldn’t take her eyes off it. She had never seen one but she knew the word saxophone.

Shrill, wailing notes filled the air, dark and intense, followed by light trilling passages. The woman’s body moved in time to the music, urgent, determined, and Letta’s own heart quickened at the sound. Memories came flooding back. Her mother’s scent, soft arms around her, twirling, spinning, laughing.

Dah, dah, dah, dah, daah. The men in the field stopped. They stood facing the shed, their weapons hanging impotently at their sides. Letta forced herself to move, climbing over the rough ditch into the field. The ground was rough and uneven, the stumps of severed wheat blocking her path. She skirted the field, keeping as close to the ditch as she could, walking past the workers, who had stopped where they stood, all eyes on the shed roof. She tried to block the pain from her mind as the wheat stubs cut her legs. She could see him now. Finn. He was tall and well built, his shoulders broad and his head covered in a forest of unkempt black hair on the top of his head and a wild straggly beard covering most of his face. He stood beside the shed but his eyes were on the field, his large head moving slowly from side to side, missing nothing, waiting to spring into action. Letta hurried on. She had to get to him before they finished playing. No-one looked at her, though she heard one man humming along to the music and could feel the heat emanating from his body as she stalked past him. Finally, she was so close to Finn that she could have touched him. She stopped. He was looking away from her towards the far end of the field.

‘Finn!’ Her voice emerged as little more than a whisper. She tried again. ‘Finn!’

This time he turned, startled. She held his gaze. He moved a stride towards her.

‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice deep and rich.

‘Marlo sent me.’

In a heartbeat, he was beside her, gripping her arms in his rough hands. ‘Marlo!’ he said. ‘You have seen Marlo?’

She nodded. In the background, the music was swelling to a climax.

‘He’s sick. In my house,’ she stammered.

‘Where?’ Finn asked, his eyes boring into her. He shook her ever so slightly. ‘Where?’

‘The wordsmith’s shop.’ She got the words out, and pulled away from him. And then she was running. Running and stumbling, sweat trickling down her back, her mouth dry. She thought she heard someone shout, but she didn’t stop to look back. Just as she neared the road, she tripped on a small stone, and went sprawling head first into the clay. The music stopped, to be replaced by an eerie silence for a moment, and then somewhere behind her, she could hear feet pounding the ground, voices calling, sharp whistles. Get up! The words roared in her head, and then she was on her feet again, and running onto the road. Only then did she risk looking over her shoulder. Back in the field, there was chaos, with people running in all directions. She couldn’t see Finn, but the roof of the shed was empty.