Chapter 5: Politics and Religion
ONE STEP INSIDE, I whirl on them. Black dots swoop across Blondie’s face, where the bright light has blinded me. He’s leaning on the door. Green-eyes has moved to the side.
“Move out of the way,” I say. My voice is unsteady. I squint at Blondie, and try to watch Green-eyes in my peripheral vision at the same time.
“I thought you paid us to protect you,” Blondie says, eyeing me.
“Your job is done,” I say. “Get out of my way.” My fingers squeeze the glass in my pocket until it cuts into my flesh.
“That would fall under ‘doing something stupid’,” Blondie says, looking annoyed. I’m not sure if he’s figured out I have a weapon, or if he’s still talking about leaving. “Look,” he says, shifting slightly, “just sit tight for a while, and then we’ll walk you back to your people.”
Green-eyes makes a soft noise. He peels off his hoodie and tosses it on a chair by a small table. “She doesn’t have any people,” he says.
I glance at him in alarm. He’s figured out too much. If they know I’m completely alone, what’s to stop them from taking the rest of the money in my pocket? What’s to stop them from anything? I open my mouth to protest. To lie. But it’s too late. I can already see it.
I glance at Blondie. The wheels are turning in his head. If I had anyone, I wouldn’t have needed to hire them. His eyes narrow on me, then he opens his mouth to speak.
“Oh, no, no, no.” The voice behind me makes me jump. It’s female. I careen my head around as she slides off the end of a huge mattress suspended on cinder blocks. There are two more people on a dilapidated sofa with one semi-attached, sagging arm. An older woman, and a small boy. They’re frozen, looking at me. I am entirely surrounded.
The speaker, a girl, young like me, moves closer. If I step away from her, it will put me closer to Green-eyes. There’s no room to retreat, and no way to keep my eye on all of them. I stay where I am, where I can watch Blondie and Green-eyes, but I’m on the balls of my feet, ready to move.
Blondie and Green-eyes exchange this look— this semi-pitying glance. Inside me, rage is building. I’m shaking, but the urge to run is changing into an urge to strike out.
“Let her go,” the girl demands, gesturing at Blondie to move. “She doesn’t want to be here.”
“She doesn’t want to die, either,” Blondie says. He raises his eyebrows at me questioningly. “Do you?”
“I want to leave,” I say very calmly. I’m shaking from head to toe, but somehow my voice is steady.
Green-eyes sits down. “No one here is going to hurt you,” he says softly. “But if you go back out there right now, your chances aren’t good.” He glances at Blondie. “We can’t really make that choice for you, though.”
Blondie rolls his eyes and steps sideways away from the door. In an instant, I’ve taken his spot. I have my back to the door, and I can keep my eye on all of them. There’s still the issue of undoing the lock, though. My instinct has me focused on escape, but Green-eyes’ words are worming their way through my mind. After everything I’ve learned about the Outpost— about people— I have no reason to trust them. But something makes me pause. Something makes me scrutinize these people, like each one of them is a card in a hand that could determine my fate.
I can look at them all now. The older woman on the sofa has a mark, like me, Green-eyes, and Blondie. I recognize her now. The herb peddler from the marketplace. She was decent to me even when she thought I was poxy. The other two are unmarked. The boy is skinny and small, probably not more than seven. His brown eyes are wide, his hands frozen on the dog-eared book in his lap. The girl is pretty, and annoyed. Hazel, almond-shaped eyes, hair halfway down her back in fifty shades of brown and gold, tiny waist and plenty of curves— she’s the kind of girl guys go for. Her jaw is set. Her lips curl down at the sides. She’s glaring at me. Waiting for me to go.
I consider the outside. I can slip down an alley and find a place to hide. I can wait it out until morning if I need to. I am about to reach behind me for the lock when the herb-dealer stands up. She walks to a wood-burning stove, removes a lid from a pot on its top, and stirs the contents inside. The shack fills with the aroma of those contents, a mouthwatering smell.
She begins ladling soup into bowls. Three of them. She passes one to Green-eyes, one to Blondie, and holds one up, looking at me.
The younger girl flounces, now. “Everyone contributes,” she says, as if it’s a deal-breaker.
Blondie fishes in his pocket and tosses her the fifty. "This should do."
Her eyes go wide on the coin in her hand, her mouth in a small 'o'. She looks at me again. I don't like the way her gaze is picking me apart, analyzing me. Anger washes across her face. "Did you steal this?" she demands, holding the coin out as evidence. "If—"
"It was a fair game," Green-eyes says.
She frowns, but she holds her tongue.
I ignore her. I’m looking at the herb-peddler and her bowl of soup. She’s looking at me, too. Her gaze is patient. I know better than to accept food from anyone, now. But this is not the old woman. What she is offering me, she’s offering freely. I know this, even though no words have passed between us. I purse my lips and consider the rest of them once more.
The small boy does not appear to be a threat, and neither does the girl, unless glares could kill. Blondie, as deadly-looking as he is, chugs his soup and considers me with a half-patience. He doesn’t want me to go, but it’s doubtful he would stop me if I tried to open the door. Green-eyes has set his bowl to the side and is picking mud from his boot, ignoring me entirely. There’s just the side of his face, the curve of his back, and one sculpted shoulder. He doesn’t even care if I leave.
Begrudgingly, I take a small step away from the door. “I can pay for it,” I say, but no one answers the statement.
Halfway across the small room, the herb-dealer presses the warm bowl into my hands. Suddenly there's nothing else in the universe.
I sit next to her on the couch and scoop mouthfuls of hot, chunky broth. There are potatoes and carrots, and small bits of meat that are a combination of tough, chewy fiber and globs of fat. It's the best thing I've ever tasted. I pace myself, trying not to have the manners of a starving person. Everyone is watching me. I glance from face to face and see the questions that they are about to ask. Only, they don't. I finish my soup, use my finger to get every last drop, and sit back, waiting. But none of them utters a single question. I'm so thankful for this that I return the favor, and ask them nothing. It doesn't make for the liveliest conversation.
When we’re finished, Green-eyes takes our bowls to a bucket of water on the counter and washes them. Blondie steals his chair. Rain starts to patter on the roof of the shack. In only a moment, it is pounding so loudly I think it might beat the walls down. Green-eyes comes back and sits on the end of the bed next to the girl. We listen to the rain for a few minutes.
Blondie suddenly grins at me. “Wouldn’t want to be out there,” he says. I attempt a smile to humor him.
Apparently, it’s enough encouragement. "That's Miranda," he says, without formality, pointing at the girl with the glare. Blondie’s finger moves to Green-eyes. "Jonas." And then the skinny boy. "Oscar." The sad-looking herbalist. "Neveah." Then he places his hand on his chest. "And I'm Apollon."
My eyebrow goes up. I can't help it. "Apollon?"
"Apollon," he says, grinning at me. "God of the sun. Destroyer. Among other things."
I try to restrain a smirk. "I see."
Miranda clears her throat. "And you are...?"
It feels strange, naming myself out loud. "Eden," I finally say, wondering if I sound convincing. Parents are supposed to name you. You're not supposed to have to do it yourself.
But Apollon says thoughtfully, "I can see that." And no one else comments.
I co
nsider what he means while the rain pours and the wind howls. It sounds like it will never stop. The beggars at the fire barrels must be drenched. Surely the fires are out. I shiver, just thinking about going back out there.
“You can’t go back out in this.” It’s the boy— Oscar. His voice is high and uncertain. His brown eyes turn to Apollon. “Can she?”
Apollon shakes his head.
Miranda groans. Jonas rubs her back soothingly and whispers something to her.
“Fine,” Miranda snaps. “But we’re not staying up all night babying her. We’re wasting oil.”
Everyone shifts into motion, readying themselves for bed. They kick off shoes and turn down the single patchwork quilt on the old mattress. I stay where I am as they douse the lamps and climb into bed. In the dark, I listen to the rain. Outside, the world is cold and unforgiving, but this is the warmest, most comfortable place I’ve ever slept. Still, I only doze. Every noise, every movement startles me awake. Halfway through the night, the rain has stopped. I’m wide awake and considering fleeing. What am I even thinking, trusting anyone? What is it these people want from me? Why are they being so kind to me? I chase these questions all the way to the morning, when light has come, and they all stretch, and groan, and climb sleepily from bed. It’s too late to go anywhere. But, hopping off the end of the bed, Oscar smiles at me. That’s when I realize it. I don’t want to go.
I stand up and stretch, running my fingers through my hair.
Apollon eyes me. He's looking at my forehead, where my hand has pushed back my bangs to reveal my mark. He meets my gaze now, and the corners of his mouth move— not in a smile, but in a look of understanding. I drop my hand and look away, at the others. The idea that someone may commiserate has its pull, but I'm not ready for it yet. I'm not sure I will be for a long time. Again, I consider leaving, and wonder how I'll get back to my disguise without being noticed.
Oscar builds a fire in the small pot-bellied stove, and cracks eggs into a pan, swirling them as they cook. Jonas cuts thick slices of bread with his belt knife, laying them out on the stove top to warm. I forget my dilemma as the smells waft toward me. Instead, I'm lingering, watching from the edge of the kitchen, feeling awkward, but not enough to sway my focus.
Miranda seats herself at the table, which is scattered with pieces of metal, and picks up a pair of needle-nose pliers. She begins fiddling. I don't know what she's doing, but she clearly does. She and Apollon chat about news in the Outpost, most of which I already know, with Jonas and Oscar occasionally chiming in. Neveah counts bundles of herbs, placing them carefully in the center of a blanket she folds into a parcel. She sets it aside and waits on the sofa for breakfast.
The smell of the food beckons, making my stomach growl. I turn away and sit next to Neveah. She glances at me and offers something like a smile, but it's the saddest smile I've ever seen. I return it anyway. Then I let my eyes wander over the room, over my companions.
Apollon has taken up the chair by the door and is tipping it back yet again. He's saying something about cats, grinning at Jonas, who glances back over his shoulder, laughing, and replies "Not anymore." Apollon throws his head back and laughs, his eyes— as blue as the ocean— sparkling.
Meanwhile, Miranda is absorbed in whatever she's doing. Her forehead occasionally furrows as she makes a twist of the pliers, tests connections with the prongs of a meter, or stops and studies her project. I watch her fit the metal conglomeration onto the end of a blown glass orb. An aether trap. She glances up at me suddenly and scowls. "Hanging around much longer?"
I say nothing. I should go, but then, there's the eggs. Not to mention I haven't figured out how to navigate my way through a strange part of the Outpost without my disguise in broad daylight. I should have thought of that, during my deliberations throughout the night. My cheeks flush. I can feel it. I don't want to be embarrassed, or angry, but I am.
Then Apollon says, easily, "Maybe you should stay, Eden. Maybe it would work out OK for all of us."
I look at him, but still don't reply. Why would they want me to stay? What good am I to them? They have everything they need. And more. Miranda is fuming. I don't want to step on anyone's toes. The last thing I need is an enemy.
She thunks down her pliers, leans back in her chair, and fixes Apollon with a look. Her raised eyebrows are a question, but they are also a statement. Apollon still looks perfectly relaxed, rocking on the two legs of his chair.
Jonas turns around silently.
Neveah, next to me, just watches.
Oscar speaks up. As he carefully turns the eggs over, he says, "I want you to stay, too."
That's sweet, I think, but he's a kid. I’m waiting for Miranda to jump on him, to send him to bed without dinner or tell him to go outside while the big people talk, but she looks at him with her analytical gaze, not speaking. Then she glances at Jonas. He shrugs.
At this point, I start to think they might actually let me stay. My heart starts thumping wildly. It’s still up for grabs. They may not agree. Miranda clearly doesn't like me.
"It's not you," she says, reading my mind. "It's just, I think you're trouble. I mean, look at you."
Apollon snorts, that amused look on his face. "As if you're not."
She rolls her eyes, looking annoyed, not ditsy.
Neveah reaches for her blanket bundle and sets it in her lap, scooting to the edge of the sofa.
"Let's vote, then," Apollon says, eyeing her. "All who want Eden to stay." He raises his hand.
They're voting. I wonder if a Sentry would count this as politics. A violation of the Second Law. Into the box, everyone. I shudder.
"Me," chirps Oscar, taking the pan off the stove.
Miranda just frowns.
Jonas remains stone still, not looking at anyone. Why does that hurt so much?
Apollon, Miranda, and Oscar look at Neveah.
She nods once. Then she stands with her bundle, and heads out the door.
Apollon flashes me a grin and flicks his eyebrows up. "You're in."
Joy is exploding inside me, and disbelief at my good fortune. But it’s smothered. “Why?” It’s all I can say. “Why would you want me to stay?”
“That’s a really good question,” agrees Miranda with a sardonic smile.
Apollon gives me a look. “We’re stronger in numbers,” he says. “You proved yourself pretty well last night. I bet you can keep doing that.” He flashes me a grin, then his eyes flick to my forehead. “And everybody deserves a chance.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, unable, for a moment, to look at him. Finally, I raise my eyes and scan his face. Does he really believe that our marks make us somehow kindred? I consider Jonas and Neveah, both of them also marked. Did all of them go through the same struggles that I have? Starting with nothing, and no one?
I shake myself out of my thoughts before I can take them too far, and make a decision. This is solid. I know in this instant that whatever comes I will stick to it. "Great," I say, though my voice is hoarse and I have to clear my throat after. I attempt to make the rest sound lighter. "Is there a secret handshake?"
Oscar grins and laughs. It's a quiet laugh for a little boy. “You’re going to like it,” he says. I believe him.
“You stink,” Miranda says, out of nowhere. “If you’re staying, you need to take a bath.” She looks pointedly toward the curtain strung up across one end of the shack, then sets down her pliers. “I’ll show you,” she says, climbs to her feet, and heads that way.
I sigh and glance longingly at the eggs and toast before following her.
The curtain falls behind us. A half-rusted tub sits alone in the middle of the room. A toilet, a table with a bucket, a broken slab of mirror. One crumpled towel dangles from a propped-up rake. A piece of hose, repaired in places with grey tape and unevenly dried epoxy, runs through a hole in the wall, and hangs into the tub. Fr
om the other hole springs a dingy hand pump.
Miranda pushes the hose further into the tub, places a stopper in the drain, then goes to the pump and begins to work it.
My eyes widen as the hose sputters and spits almost-clean water. "Running water?" I say, even though the answer is plain.
"Rain barrels," she says. She finishes with the pump, then grabs a brown sliver of soap that is stuck to the table next to the bucket, her fingers scraping it from the surface. She holds it out to me.
I hesitate, looking at the soap in her hand.
"Don't worry," she says simply. "No one will bother you." There is some small kindness in her voice.
"Thanks."
She shoves the soap at me and disappears through the curtain.
I watch the water sputter into the tub. From the other side of the curtain are voices, murmuring, blurred. Who knows what they’re saying? I turn away from them, and strip off my clothes, laying them neatly next to the bucket, taking care that nothing spills from my pockets.
I climb into the tub, lowering my body slowly into the water. My skin prickles. The icy metal tub pulls every bit of warmth from the water, and the water pulls the warmth from my blood and bones. My teeth clatter together, compelling me into motion despite the longing to linger.
The piece of soap rubs into a thick lather in my palms. I scrub every inch of my body, examining its smooth, pale skin. The water becomes cloudy. My hair goes rubbery but clean after two washings. It squeaks between my forefinger and thumb. I emerge from the tub, water dripping, feeling like a new person. I've shed my skin, grown into something new. The question is, what?
I reach for the towel on the rake by the mirror, but freeze. At first, I actually think there is someone else in the room with me. I should be seeing an old woman, hunched over from years of hard labor and broken by illness— that's how I've felt for so long. The girl who stands before me, though, is young and slim. She's long-legged, built athletically with broad shoulders on a compact feminine frame. Her face is striking, encircled in umber hair. Long, dark, narrow eyes are surrounded by a flutter of thick lashes. Pale skin contrasts delicately-shaped pink lips. She's not an old woman at all. Who is she, then? I've forgotten her.
I stare at her and wonder, for the first time, if she has family somewhere. Friends. Does someone miss her? Surely someone misses a girl like that. She and I— this girl and me— we have only one thing in common. I trace my fingers along the mark on my forehead. She does the same. We stare at each other, as though we may come to some understanding.
My stomach rumbles and I remember the eggs. I dress quickly, then comb my fingers through my hair, pulling my bangs down over my forehead.
I have to steel myself to leave the bathroom. I’m not used to other people. Something about going back to them is frightening, even if part of me looks forward to the company.
Oscar has saved me a plate of eggs and toast. "Apollon and Jonas are going outside the wall today," he says as I sit on the sofa to eat. "Maybe they'll let us come."
I look from Apollon to Jonas to Miranda. She's still working with her pliers, but her gaze flicks across to me. It’s not hostile. Something else. She shakes her head slightly.
"What's outside the wall?" I ask. I already know part of the answer. There's a twenty foot stretch where we can go if we want. This is an open area, a no-man's-land. Beyond that, everything is restricted, except for the road. If we wanted to— if we were brave enough— we could travel via the road to another Outpost or city. But surely that’s not what Jonas and Apollon intend, so why do they go outside the wall at all?
"Plants," says Apollon. "Herbs. We gather them for Neveah."
This catches my interest. If I go with them, I can learn which plants are useful, where to find them, and hopefully, if I pay attention to what Neveah does, what each of them is good for. And with Apollon and Jonas, I should be safe even without my disguise. I'm a little concerned about their reaction to last night's card game, but I can't hide forever, can I? Clearly Apollon expects me to play again. Everyone contributes.
"Sounds fun," I say, scooping up my eggs with my bread, taking a larger mouthful than I intended. It's absolute bliss. I can't help but close my eyes as I chew, can't help but swallow before I've chewed it properly. After the next mouthful, I make myself stop and look at the food, breathing in the aroma.
"You can come," Apollon says. "But we're going to the Rustler after. Better if you don't go there for a while."
"A while?" I mutter through my next bite. "What about cards?"
"Let 'em cool their heels for a bit and come to terms with the fact that a sweet little girl kicked their asses," he says, examining his fingertips briefly before licking crumbs and egg juice from them.
Sweet little girl? I want to retort, but I'm busy chewing.
"What he means," Jonas says, standing in the kitchen washing plates, "is that they probably won't bother you now that they've had a chance to think about the fact that you took them fair and square. It happens. But you could choose safer games than the one last night."
Miranda narrows her eyes at this, still studying whatever she's building. "Who was playing last night?" she asks slowly.
Jonas' gaze flicks to her, but she doesn't see it. Then he looks Apollon in the eye.
Clearly Apollon is not supposed to say it, but either he doesn't get it, or he doesn't care.
"Donegan," he says.
There's the briefest twitch of Miranda's pliers before she bends the next wire. Her face is blank. She says nothing.
"Donegan," Oscar says, his brown eyes widening as they look at me. I can't help but notice Miranda's little twitch as he speaks. She does it again when he says, "You beat Donegan?"
I shrug it off. "Guess so," I mutter. I shovel in the last of my eggs and follow it up with the remnant of my toast— a piece I probably should have finished in two bites.
Jonas is finishing up the last plate when I walk into the kitchen behind him. He reaches back and takes mine without looking. "It's getting late," he says. "We should get on with this."
Apollon doesn’t hurry to get up as Jonas tromps past him out the door. He pauses halfway out and flicks those green eyes back at me. "You coming, Stinky?"
I feel my cheeks flush bright red as I consider throwing something at him. There's nothing suitable within reach. Apollon is laughing, so as I walk by, I kick one of his two weight-bearing chair legs. He scrambles to catch his balance. I stalk down the path outside and hear Oscar's light footsteps running to catch up with me.
"This is so cool," he says, his voice filled with the excitement of the young. "If you look past the barriers, the trees just go on and on... like forever."
I glance down at him, softening. "Yeah?"
"Once," he says, "there was this white doe. She got away from the hunters. They shot her, but she ran away. Just kept running. You could see her going, and then she was gone. Just disappeared. Like a ghost or something."
"Wow," I say. I'm not sure what else to say.
"I don't think she died," he says. "I don't think God would let something that pretty die."
"God?" I say, startled. I glance around to make sure there are no Sentries within sight. "God who kicked us out of paradise? Why wouldn't he?"
He shrugs, bopping along beside me. "Well," he says thoughtfully, "if I was God, I wouldn't."
My hand is on his head before I realize it, ruffling his shaggy brown hair. "You've got my vote in the next election," I say.
He grins up at me.