The Wordsmith

CHAPTER 9

AS LETTA left Central Kitchen the following morning, Carver the gavver suddenly appeared beside her. Despite herself, her heart quickened.

What did he want? Had he found out something?

‘Yes?’ she said, doing her best to pretend that it was normal for a gavver to approach her, though a pulse was pounding in her neck.

‘Words,’ he said, pushing past her and walking towards the open door.

‘Words?’ Letta echoed.

‘Words for gavvers. Apprentices.’

She almost laughed out loud.

‘How many boxes?’ she asked.

‘Ten,’ Carver replied, throwing the word over his shoulder but not bothering to look at her.

Letta nodded.

‘You collect?’

‘You bring.’

Without another word, he was gone. She’d never done words for the gavvers before. That had always been Benjamin’s job. It wouldn’t do if these particular words fell into the wrong hands. Like every trade, they had their codes and mysterious modes of communication.

She walked through the living area and into Benjamin’s study. There, she unlocked the door into his private library. She breathed in the smell of books and age and suddenly grief overcame her like an unexpected shower in summer. She hadn’t been in here since she’d got the news. She sank to her knees, overcome with emotion. Where was he? A tear burned its way down her cheek and she wiped it away impatiently. There was no time to waste on crying, she told herself. She headed over to the shelves. Her eyes scanned the rows of boxes.

G. Gavver

There it was. She took the box and hurried out of the room, carefully locking the door behind her. Back in the living room, she put on a large pot filled with seawater to boil. The beetroots would arrive later and she would have to start the long process of making ink. She had gone out earlier and carried the two tin buckets full of brine back from the beach. Soon a man would come from the fields with the beetroot, and she could begin. It was always the same on the first day of the harvest moon. For as long as she could remember, on that day, the house was filled with the earthy smell of beetroot. Benjamin had used different plants at different times of the year to make ink but autumn ink was always beetroot.

Letta had taken some pleasure the previous evening when Mrs Pepper had arrived with the little stove that Letta would be permitted to use in order to make the ink. It was well known in Ark that Mrs Pepper had no use for words or wordsmiths. She and Benjamin had always had a testy relationship, and her sour countenance had been very much in evidence when she handed Letta the little stove. Letta smiled at the memory.

Up at her desk, she took out the cards carefully. There were about thirty in all, each one in Benjamin’s clear script.

Artist: Creator of art, enemy of New World, Desecrator

Letta knew that the word had had another meaning in the time before the Melting. Benjamin had told her how artists had been revered when he was a boy, but that they had become arrogant and led people astray. They were not tolerated in Ark, and even their work was banned. They had become a secret organisation, known as the Desecrators. She picked up another card:

Report: Make known to the authorities

Letta dipped her pen in the ink, drew out a fresh card and started to write. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t hear the door open and someone walk in.

‘Letta!’

Letta jumped, sending ink splashing across the words she had just written. She looked up. Werber. Now what did he want?

‘Yes?’ she said, not managing to keep the impatience out of her voice.

‘How you?’ Werber smiled at her, revealing his large white teeth.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Work.’

He nodded.

‘Work later,’ he said.

She walked to the counter and stood waiting to see what he wanted.

‘See Desecrator?’ he said suddenly.

Letta drew in a fast breath. What did he mean?

‘Desecrator?’

‘Yesterday, at mill?’

Letta calmed down. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Saw him.’

‘Saw him today,’ Werber said smugly.

‘Today?’

‘Down at gavver base. Underground.’

Now she understood. She had seen the grating on the outside wall of the gavver base. They kept the prisoners underground, and sometimes you could see a hand begging for food through the grating. She realised Werber was still talking.

‘Kicked sand in his eyes!’

‘You did?’

He was obviously very proud of himself, Letta thought. His chest swelled and the smile grew even bigger.

‘Desecrator,’ he said again and spat on the floor.

Letta couldn’t take any more. ‘Want something?’ she said. ‘Work.’ She nodded towards her desk.

‘No,’ Werber said, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘You come walk with me?’

Letta’s heart sank. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She shook her head. ‘Work,’ she said again, indicating her desk.

He scowled. ‘Later?’

She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her desk, hoping he would get the message and leave. He stood for another minute.

‘I ask Helen,’ he said and, like a sulky child, he turned and left. Letta almost laughed. Werber really was foolish. He had been the same in school, always taking umbrage when the children teased him, running to Mrs Truckle over every small slight.

He had always made it known that he would like to mate with Letta. She had found that out when she was ten years old. Benjamin had advised her to be friendly with him, but not to make any commitment until she was eighteen. At eighteen, girls were expected to settle down with a man and produce children. No more than two children. It was a fine balance. Noa needed to repopulate the planet, but resources were limited, thus the two-child rule. Occasionally, people had a third child. Those children were taken and given to families who had no children or only a single child. A fourth child would have seen the parents banished.

There were few accidental pregnancies in Ark, and when they did happen, there were herbs from the healer to make sure the child didn’t grow to term. Werber was a third child. He had been born to the Diamond family, whose mother was a tailor and whose father worked in the fields. The herbs hadn’t worked, in that case, obviously. It happened. He had been taken from his mother and given to the Downes family. Third children were a rarity, and Benjamin always said that they became difficult, never really feeling part of the adopted family and living too near their family of birth. It was true in Werber’s case.

Letta went back to her desk, but she couldn’t concentrate. How would she contact Marlo? No-one had any idea where their hiding place was and even though she knew it was in the forest, she also knew she would never find it.

She sat lost in her own thoughts and, just as she was about to give up she heard Werber’s voice in her head: ‘Saw him today.’

Of course! Werber had seen a Desecrator. She could see the same man and talk to him. He could tell her how to contact Marlo. She tried not to think too much about the detail of her plan. There was no guarantee the prisoner would still be there or that he would talk to her. If he did talk to her, why would he trust her?

She would finish the word boxes, ten of them, and that would give her an excuse to go to the gavvers’ base. At least she could try. If it meant she found out the truth about Benjamin nothing else would matter.

She went into the living room and tried to eat her lunch. A hunk of dry bread, a bowl of tomato soup made from the recent glut and an apple all stared up at her, but she had no appetite. She picked up the apple and took a bite. The smell reminded her of every autumn in Ark, the wagons loaded with apples fresh from the orchard, the sweet smell of fruit permeating every breath of air. For weeks Central Kitchen would produce jugs of apple juice and mounds of stewed apples with every meal. It didn’t bother Letta. She liked apples. She took another bite. As her teeth sank into the firm flesh the door opened again and a young man came in with a large box. He placed the box on the counter.

‘Beetroot,’ he said, and before Letta could thank him he was gone. Letta took the box and brought it back to the living room. Then, taking the small sharp knife she had seen Benjamin use so many times before, she started to cut the beetroots into small chunks. The juice immediately covered her fingers, turning her skin bright red.

She looked at her hands and thought about all the wordsmiths who had gone before her. Not all of them had been required to make their own ink but maybe some of them had. She continued to chop the tough beetroots, throwing them into the pot to be covered by the boiling water. Finally, when all the roots were in the water, she reduced the temperature and left them to cook.

Then she went to finish the gavvers’ word boxes.

By mid-afternoon, her hand ached but the ten boxes were finished and the shop was filled with the heavy smell of the beetroot. She walked over to the stove and turned off the heat. Then, carefully, she strained the crimson juices into a large bowl. She picked up one of the bigger chunks and pushed it through the old wire strainer to thicken the liquid. She stirred it, watching the blood-red soup swirl and wave. She knew there was no more to do but to let it cool.

Outside, the bell chimed four o’clock. It was time to go. Letta went and got her coat. Butterflies danced in her stomach and her hands had begun to sweat. She would play it by ear, she thought. One step at a time.

The gavvers’ base was below John Noa’s house to the south of the town. It was nestled at the bottom of the hill and Letta always thought it looked as though John Noa was looking down on it, keeping an eye on the criminals that were held there. She took the long way around, passing the mill, eager to see if there was any sign of yesterday’s painting but there was nothing. The mill stood unadorned as though nothing unusual had ever happened there. Letta couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. She had never seen anything like it and she knew she would never forget it. The old man’s words lingered in her memory too.

You have a right to express yourselves. You are human!

He was wrong, of course. Before the Melting, people had expressed themselves as they wished, and look at where that got them.

She turned the corner on to Mill Street itself. On the opposite side of the road, two Green Warriors were standing, talking. Letta bowed her head in their direction but they didn’t seen to see her or take any notice of her greeting. She pressed on, the face of the cliff visible in front of her, beyond that the silhouette of Noa’s house perched near its summit. In front of her, she could see the Round House, the gavvers’ base, its round stone walls broken only by narrow slits for windows, its high metal gates guarding the perimeter, and its massive front door painted black.

She shifted the satchel from her shoulder where it had started to eat into her flesh and held it awkwardly in the crook of her elbow. She took a deep breath and marched on through the gates up to the front door. She pushed on the door and it opened. Inside was a small entrance hall with a short desk, behind which sat a gavver. He looked up when Letta came in. He was young with bright eyes, full of curiosity. He stretched his neck forward when he saw her.

‘Yes?’ he said.

Letta put her bag on the desk and started to take out her boxes.

‘Words,’ she said. ‘Carver.’

He nodded, taking up a box and examining it.

‘Good,’ he answered, and smiled at her, showing two rows of white teeth.

Letta nodded towards the boxes.

‘Apprentices,’ she said, by way of explanation, but really just to keep him talking.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You wordsmith?’

Letta nodded. ‘Wordsmith,’ she agreed.

There was an awkward silence then till Letta realised there was nothing else of value she could get from the young gavver. She couldn’t very well ask him about his prisoners. Could she?

Letta smiled at him. ‘Many prisoners?’ She angled her head to one side, hoping she looked alluring.

It seemed to work. He smiled again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Many.’

‘Good,’ Letta said. ‘Desecrators?’

He nodded. ‘Some.’

‘Saw one,’ Letta said, feigning excitement. ‘At mill.’

The gavver nodded barely concealing his pride. ‘Hugo.’

‘Still here?’ Letta asked.

The young man glanced nervously behind him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In prison.’

‘Any others?’

‘Why you ask?’

The voice made Letta jump, her heart started to pound. She turned around slowly. Carver stood there watching her, his mouth curled in a sneer.

‘I … I bring words,’ Letta stammered.

‘Go now.’ Carver spat the words at her.

The young gavver put his head down and seemed afraid to look at her. Letta grabbed her bag and walked out, trying not to let the older man see her fear. She could feel his eyes burning into her as she passed him in the doorway and then she heard it bang behind her and felt the cool air on her face. She sighed with relief. What should she do now? Hugo the Desecrator was still here. She knew where the grating was. She had to try to talk to him. But what if Carver came back out? What possible reason could she have to talk to a prisoner? She hesitated. She had to try. They could move the prisoner or expel him at any time and then she would have no way of finding Marlo.

She turned right, walking close to the building, around the corner to the gable. She had seen the grating before. She looked down. No hands stretched out in supplication. She went to the first grate and hunkered down beside it.

‘Hello?’

The word sounded foolish hanging there in the open air. It wasn’t even a List word. She waited, glancing nervously behind her. Nothing. She tried again.

‘Hello?’

Out on the street, through the railings, she saw a cart go by. She jumped up quickly, but the driver didn’t even glance in her direction. She moved swiftly to the next grating. Again she hunkered down.

‘Hello? Hugo?’

She waited. This is pointless, she thought. There’s no-one there. She would try one more time and then go home.

‘Hugo?’ she said again.

A hand appeared at the grating. Letta almost screamed.

‘Yes?’ the voice sounded eager.

‘Are you Hugo?’ Letta said, never taking her eyes off the gnarled old hand at the grate.

‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘I am Hugo. Who are you?’

Letta looked around nervously. He wasn’t speaking List so she answered him in kind.

‘I am Letta,’ she said. ‘The wordsmith.’

‘Letta,’ he said, with a deep sigh. ‘What a lovely name!’

He sounded so calm, so confident, as though he were chatting to someone in Central Kitchen. Letta took a deep breath.

‘I need to get a message to Marlo,’ she blurted out.

Letta squinted through the grating and could just see the shape of the old man. He was manacled to the wall just beneath the grating. The first band of steel was about his upper arm and the second nearer his wrist. The manacles made sure that he couldn’t sit or lie down, couldn’t move away from the open grating.

‘Ah,’ said the old man. ‘I see.’

Suddenly the air was rent by the screams of another prisoner from inside the jail.

‘What’s happening?’ Letta said, afraid of the answer.

‘Torture,’ the old man said grimly. ‘They are torturing someone.’

Letta shuddered. ‘Why?’ She could barely say the word as the screams grew more intense. She tried not to imagine what was happening back there in the darkness.

The old man’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Why do you want Marlo?’

‘I helped him,’ she managed to say. ‘Now I need him to help me,’ she said.

‘I know who you are now,’ the old man said. ‘I heard about you.’

‘Will you help me?’ Letta persisted.

‘Leave a message under the stone behind the Goddess.’ The old man had to raise his voice to be heard now. ‘Before dawn tomorrow.’

Letta nodded. ‘Can I … can I do anything to help you?’ she said.

The man laughed. ‘I think I am beyond help,’ he said.

Letta rummaged in her bag and found a small bottle of water. She put it into his hand. ‘Take that,’ she said.

The old hand grasped the bottle and coaxed it through the bars of the vent.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Good luck,’ Letta managed to say, hauling herself to her feet.

Just as she did, the young gavver appeared at the corner and walked towards her. Letta’s heart sank. What was she to say?

‘Gate?’ she said and, even as she did, she knew she sounded like an imbecile. He stared at her for a moment then laughed. He pointed to where the gate was.

‘That way,’ he said and she could see the amusement in his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said and scurried past him.

At the corner, she looked back. The gavver wasn’t looking at her. He was urinating into the grate, a steady stream of yellow waste pouring into the cell below.

Letta ran to the gate, rage burning in her gut. This was the man she had joked with, smiled at, only minutes earlier. Why would anyone do that? Her temper flared, sending hot blood into her cheeks. She leant against the railings, teeth clenched, her hands balled into fists. She wanted to go back there and push him away, to hurt him in any way she could. She took deep breaths. He was a pig. If only she could say that to him. A pig.

And then her pulse slowed and her heart sank, a feeling of helplessness flooded her body. She couldn’t challenge him. She couldn’t attack him. He was a gavver and she was nothing. Nothing at all. In her mind, she could hear the man in the cell screaming again. She didn’t think she would ever forget that sound and the image of Hugo’s weathered old hand clutching the grate. She walked away only stopping once to look up at John Noa’s house. Did he know what was going on in the building beneath him? Did he know? Had he ordered it?

She hurried along the street. She couldn’t think about any of that now. She had succeeded in what she set out to do, she reminded herself. She knew how to contact Marlo. In the morning, she would go to the Goddess and leave a message.

As she reached the door of the shop, she realised she was thirsty. She reached for her bag and remembered that she had given the last of the water to Hugo. There would be no more till the morning. She couldn’t ask Werber, not after the way she had treated him. She swallowed hard. She couldn’t think about any of that now. She had to compose her message to the Desecrators.

Even as she formed the thought, she shuddered. What had she become? She looked down at her blood-red hands and shivered. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She had to find out what had happened to Benjamin, and she would talk to anyone who could help her. With new determination she opened the door of the shop and stepped inside. She went straight to the drop box. There was only a single card there. A card like the ones they used in the shop. She pulled it out and examined it. The words were written in block capitals. Letta read them. A small cry escaped her lips. She read them again to make sure she had understood.

BENJAMIN NOT DEAD

The card fluttered to the floor. The words flew about the room. Benjamin. Not. Dead.