Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Read online

  “Yes,” I conclude, and I catch each boy’s eyes in turn. “The lake road. As fast as possible.”

  “But Lupay, they can’t move fast at all.” Garrett glances at the baby, then at the young mother’s feet.

  She’s still shoeless, and her feet are bloody and raw just from the last half mile of running. I squeeze her hand again, and she smiles at me warmly. She should be falling to the ground and weeping and wailing, but she’s not.

  Garrett is right. The children, the women, this young mother—they can’t move at one fifth the speed we need to go. If we walk the lake road, we’ll be overtaken and killed in hours. If we meander along the tracks in the woods, we’ll get to Lower after it’s already destroyed.

  “We can go to Sikwaa,” the girl says, calm and sure.

  “Sikwaa? That’s a hell of a hike,” I say without thinking. But I’m right. The shortcut along the ridge is only five miles, but the first mile is almost straight up, and rugged.

  “But we ain’t gotta hurry,” the girl says. Her voice is filled with daily hardship, and I wonder about her family. Does she have a husband? Maybe this is her little brother, not her son. She’s so skinny I can see the bones in her shoulders poking up under her nightshirt, and even the baby looks like he gets most of his nutrition from whatever debris sticks to his thumb. I believe she could make it.

  “The others can do it too, Lupay,” she says, as if she heard my next unanswered question. “I knows the way. I walked it before. There’s water. An if we see anyone, we can send em down to meet you at Lower.”

  I catch Garrett nodding and Shack staring at me with eagerness.

  “Okay,” I say. But I just can’t let her go like this. I bend and start untying the laces of my boots.

  Shack grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me back up. “Lupay, don’t be stupid.”

  “Look at her feet,” I say, wondering if I’m hurting her feelings. “She’s going to walk to Sikwaa on those?”

  “Ain’t got no others, so these’ll do,” she says, and it makes Shack grin. “Sides, I gots some Forsada blood in me from way back.”

  I don’t know what she means by that, but Shack grabs my elbow. “Look, Loop, you and me and Garrett, we need to run, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He’s right, of course. I give the girl a sorry sort of look, but she nods and lets go of my hand finally. It makes me sad, her warm softness releasing me like that.

  She turns to the other women, who stand a ways away watching. “We’s walking for Sikwaa. That okay with you all?” The others realize it’s not a question. I see that while we were talking, the women had taken a thick leather jacket from one of the men, ripped it up, and tied the pieces to the feet of the ones without shoes. They will be all right.

  Garrett talks briefly to the men, and with some nodding and pointing they split up. Two will go with the others to Sikwaa, and the other two will come with us. I know these two only vaguely, never really having paid much attention to the fishing people who lived in Lodgeholm. I’d rather eat pinecones and beetles than fish.

  Shack slaps me on the back and starts off jogging down the hill to the east, toward the lake road. He is still barefoot, but his feet are tough from years of losing his shoes—when he has shoes—in the river. Garrett and I follow.

  With Shack setting the pace, we reach the lake road in minutes. The track is still dry and the grass tall and unbent between the soft, dusty ruts. We sweat and puff our way into the warming morning, and in less than half an hour we reach Kateedal. The houses in the southern parts of Lower are just waking as we pass, but we can’t stop. We need to get across the river.

  The familiar air of home feels good after the crazy week I’ve been away. I try not to think about what it will feel like tomorrow.

  We round the long bend along Cedar Beach, and the bigger houses of Lower loom not far off. We slow to a walk, letting our breath catch up to us. The few people out early are feeding geese, collecting eggs, sweeping a front step, smoking a pipe under the sunrise. Each one stares silently at us as we pass. We acknowledge them with silent nods, but we don’t speak. No need. As we pass, each one gathers their family and falls in behind us.

  At Fannybridge I see the white wisps of the first morning smoke from my father’s forge. I can’t hear him this far away, but I know he’s singing. My mother will be putting something to cook in the kitchen for his lunch. I wonder, does she make enough for me, hoping I’ll come home? Or does she cook just for the two of them?

  Word has somehow gone ahead of our approach. People flow from doors even before we reach them, and the murmur that stalked us from behind is now a buzz on all sides. We pass the candle maker’s, the baker’s, the man who makes cheese, the Nandez house and the Tinez house. We pass Shem Shiver’s place, but the boys don’t even look at it. We stomp our way with deep resolve straight to the town center, straight to my father’s smithy which faces the big town square.

  We march to the middle of the square and wait for the people to gather around us. Two hundred at least. Not a fifth the population of Lower, but a good start. Enough. The murmur peaks and then settles, and as it calms to a near quiet, one man steps from the crowd.

  Steps is a generous term. More like stumbles with intent. He shuffles to stand in front of Shack, face to face, toe to toe. Shack puffs his chest and stands straighter, nearly as tall as the drunk man. Garrett slouches to the side, edges slightly away from the pair. The three of us stand grimy, sweating and stinking, covered in soot and blood.

  “William Martin Shiver,” the man says, and spits on the dirt between Shack’s filthy bare feet. I don’t know when Shack saw his father last. They spend most of their time avoiding each other.

  Without warning, Shem Shiver rears back and slams a fist into his son’s jaw.

  CHAPTER 4

  Shack staggers back as Shem stumbles after him, rubbing his hand and then balling it into a new fist. In reflex I start to spring toward them, but Garrett grabs me around the waist and holds tight.

  “Let go,” I mumble, struggling against his grip that’s much stronger than I expected. “He’s drunk.”

  Shack never told me what his father did or why the twins moved out on their own when they were ten. I know it has something to do with their mother’s disappearance ten years ago. In any case, Shack’s father has no idea what he’s getting into. He’s never seen Shack with another man’s blood dripping from his chin.

  I wriggle and writhe, twist and pull, but Garrett’s grip is like a bear trap. Just as Shack scrambles back to his feet, a harsh voice cries across the square.

  “Stop it!” It’s my father’s voice, and that would be enough for most men. But Shem’s drunk, and Shack looks ready to settle things.

  My father steps between them, his blackened hand slapping away Shem’s punch before it can land on Shack’s jaw. My father’s not a big man, but the forge has made him strong and lean. Once I saw him kick at a wild bear until it ran away. He has no fear of a coward like Shem Shiver.

  “Ryne Smith, this ain’t no concern of yours,” Shem growls, spittle flying from his matted, brown beard. “This is between two men, and neither one of ‘em’s you.”

  Shack stands still and sturdy, his face carved of angry stone and his muscles tensed. But he doesn’t move to attack his father or retreat.

  “You just stop it now, Shem,” my father says as if he’s scolding a dog that’s found an old dead squirrel to play with. “Go and sleep it off, hear?” He grasps Shem’s arm, and I know his fingertips are boring into the muscle enough to make Shem see stars with pain.

  Shem’s knees weaken for a moment, and he wobbles, but my father holds him up. Most people around us wouldn’t notice the change, but I’ve felt that grip myself before and have a little sympathy for Shem. Just a little.

  Shem spits one more time at the ground in front of Shack, but the spit gets stuck in his beard and he has to wipe it away with his filthy paw. He mumbles something I can’t hear, then turns and staggers back through the
crowd, who open a path before him.

  My father stares hard at Shack. I expect Shack to say something manly like I can fight my own fights, or you shouldn’t interfere, or he’ll be back. Instead, after the briefest of pauses and without any change of expression, he nods in my direction.

  My father, confused but still in a fighting mind, glances warily at Garrett and me. I’ve stopped struggling, but Garrett still has me wrapped up, his hands tight on my waist. My father’s gaze connects with Garrett’s, who eases his grip but doesn’t remove his hands or back off. Then he notices me, and I’m both amused by and furious at how long it takes him to recognize his own daughter.

  His dark scowl changes to puzzlement and then melts into joy. He yelps like a little dog and leaps at me, grabbing me in a wiry bear hug and lifting me off the ground. He dances me in circles, hopping around and bumping into unfortunate people around us. But no one cares. They like my father.

  He stops, out of breath, and holds me out before him. I’ve never seen such a smile on his face. I don’t get it; I’ve been gone less than two weeks, and I’ve come home late before. He’s never been giddy like this, for anything.

  He’s been gazing into my eyes, but now his expression changes as he looks me over. I don’t have to guess at his thoughts as he takes me in: bruises and bloodstains covering my face and arms. Matted hair that’s probably more mud-brown than black. Strange, torn boy-clothes from somewhere other than Tawtrukk.

  “Miha,” he says, taking my two hands in his, “what’s wrong?”

  Even with the strange clothes and damaged body, he sees right into me and knows my thoughts.

  Where do I begin? What’s wrong? Everything’s wrong.

  Someone shouts for someone to go get Cristina, my mother. Her daughter is home safe.

  No, I think, not safe. Home maybe, but not safe.

  “Lupita,” my father whispers, “talk to me.”

  I feel the press of people around us, crowding to hear my story. To them, a missing girl has returned. And Shem slugged his son. Nothing this interesting ever happens in Lower. This is even bigger than when Micktuk comes into town. They’re eager for some good gossip.

  My stomach turns at what I’ve got to tell them instead. But how can I? How do you tell a whole town that within hours their homes will be in ruins, their town destroyed, their friends and families slaughtered? I can’t look at their faces. My eyes are too blurred with tears to see them anyway. I look down instead, to avoid the look of pain and worry in my father’s eyes.

  “Lupay,” he pleads.

  Garrett’s hand settles heavy on my shoulder from behind, and while it steadies me I still can’t speak. So he speaks instead.

  “It’s terrible, Mister Smith.” His voice is cold and low, and I know why. None of us wants to give voice to what we’ve seen. If we don’t say it, maybe it won’t have existed.

  His sudden shout across the whole square startles me. “Listen, everyone! Southshaw has sent an army to attack us. Lupay has seen this army, a thousand men breaking camp five miles south of here.”

  People in the back scoff, some even laugh. They think it’s some Shiver twins prank. The ones nearest us, though, glance nervously at each other. They can see Garrett’s face and the evidence of the fight that the three of us wear.

  “Lodgeholm is already destroyed, burned to the ground. Only a few survived.”

  Shouts of protests and cries of anguish rise over the darkening rumble of the people around us. For the first time, the two young men that came with us from Lodgeholm are noticed, and they’re shoved forward to stand next to Shack.

  I can see questions in my father’s eyes, but I can also see he’s already figured out the answers. Garrett continues to shout details at the crowd, but my father just asks me quietly, “How long?”

  “A few hours at most, Papi.” My voice is thin and crackly. “They’re coming to kill us all.”

  His brown skin clouds to gray, and he sways a little.

  Garrett’s still speaking loudly. “—the ridge trail to Sikwaa—”

  My father puts his hand up, and silence assaults the square. He straightens and turns to the crowd. His normally calm, gentle voice thunders over the people. “Emergency council!” Without pausing, he strides into the crowd, shoving aside those who don’t scurry out of his way. After six or seven steps, he halts and spins to face me. “Well? Come on.” He looks to Garrett, then to Shack and the two men from Lodgeholm. “You, too. Come on.”

  He can’t mean it. No one under twenty-one is allowed in the Council. It’s never been done. But Shack steps out without hesitation, and I take Garrett’s hand, which is still resting on my shoulder, and pull him forward. We follow my father to the big hall next to the forge house, through the huge oak doors, and into the cavernous, dim room.

  He’s stalking around the edge, throwing open wooden shutters with echoing clatters. As the morning sunlight dulls the dimness, something’s strange. The room—simple, pine benches lining the outer wall under a long, muted mural of the lake; unlit sconces waiting between the narrow windows; high ceiling ribbed with thick, naked rafters—it’s exactly as I remember it. What did I expect? Nothing’s changed here. Lodgeholm is ashes, but nothing’s changed here.

  As my father turns the final corner and slams open the last shutter, other people spill in behind me, flowing past and spreading out along the benches. They all seem to know where to sit, but I have no place. Within a minute, the room is awash with the sounds of sniffling, stifled coughs, nervous tap-taps of toes on the wood floor. Hardly any space is left on the benches, but the gaps make it clear to all who’s missing. Since this is my first Council, I don’t know who should fill those holes. Possibly a few of them lie amid the ashes of Lodgeholm.

  My father stands in the empty center of the room, which is cleared as if for the New Year’s dance. He puts his hand out to me and tries to reassure me with a grim smile. But it’s wrong. In this dark room, it feels like we’re at a funeral and he’s the corpse inviting me for a terrible dance. Shadows settle in his eyes as we stare at each other, but I force myself to move toward him. When I reach him, I don’t take his hand. Instead, I turn in a slow circle to look at each person, one at a time. By the day’s end, some will be dead. Maybe all of them.

  Shack, Garrett, and the two men from Lodgeholm join my father and me in the center of the room. The silence continues as I try not to fidget. Dark, quiet places like this give me the creeps, and all these people staring silent at me are starting to make me feel like I’m back in Fobrasse’s disgusting dining hall. These are my people. Some of them taught me to read, to sew, to tan a deer hide. A few, friends of my mother, used to feed me or sing to me when I was little. But they look at me now like they don’t know me, like they look at that crazy old lady in Upper who talks to coyotes and eats tree bark.

  The door’s creak interrupts the sniffling and throat-clearing. My heart soars to see my mother bustle in with her best friend, Marjorie. She looks happy to see me, but when she glances past me to my father her face goes dark. She looks down and shuffles quickly across the room to fill one of the holes in the ring of faces.

  I haven’t seen her in two weeks. Maybe she thought I was dead. I want to run to her and hug her. Doesn’t she want that, too? Maybe you don’t do that in Council, but isn’t this kind of a special situation? Can’t we forget the rules for a minute, just for a minute, so I can hug my mother before we all die like those people at Lodgeholm?

  I take one step toward her. Two hands shoot out and grasp at my arm, but I shake them off. “Leggo.” One was my father. The other, I think, was Shack. God bless Garrett for keeping his hands to himself. I walk, then jog to my mother, who looks suddenly terrified. Her gaze flicks between me and my father until I reach her, but she doesn’t stand.

  Instead, I drop to my knees when I reach her, bumping into her legs and hugging her around her waist. She puts her hands on my shoulders. It’s not an embrace, but I feel her love in the touch. It’s the most
she can do, here. Old people and their rules. It’s stupid. I love my parents, and they are the wisest people I’ve ever met, but my father can be such an ass about following rules.

  Slowly I rise and stand before my mother, but she stares at my belly, her eyes glazed and unseeing. There are tears there, and I can see this is ripping her to bits inside. I want to yell into the silence. Frick your stupid rules! Can’t my mother hug me one last time?

  Instead, I take her hands and squeeze once, then drop them limp and lifeless into her lap. As I walk slowly back to my father, I see regret and apology in his eyes. But I don’t care about that. Don’t apologize, you jerk. Let her stand up and hug her daughter.

  A good daughter, an obedient citizen, I glide to his side again, catching Garrett’s eye and seeing concern and compassion there. Probably one of the empty spots on the bench belongs to his drunk father. Suddenly I feel a different kind of sorrow for his different kind of problem.

  The oaken doors creak wide open again, and the morning enters with the silhouette of a figure that is, in height, weight, shape, and stride very like my father. It’s like my father’s shadow twin, but I know he’s nothing at all like my father, totally unrelated and totally opposite.

  Before my father can welcome him with the official Council greeting, Marshall Turner barks, “What the hell, Ryne?”

  “Welcome, President,” my father says, unperturbed. He turns to address the assembly like he’s on a slowly rotating platform. “Men and women of Taw—”

  “Cut it, Smith,” barks Turner as he clumps in heavy work boots to stand nose to nose with my father. Why a potter needs heavy work boots, I’ve never figured out. Maybe to clump hard across wooden floors.

  My father doesn’t quail under his close stare, but he does stop talking.

  “Dammit, Ryne, what the hell is all this about an emergency Council?” He looks at the people, asserting his authority as President. “Only the President can call a Council. You know that.”