Ebony Hill (9 page)

My memory of Farra’s injuries tends me towards siding with Saice.

“I’ll tell Brenon we sent you to visit Farra,” the scout offers. “He’ll know where to find you if it’s urgent.”

It’s a fair offer. Hastily, in case Brenon should appear at the door, I head for the room that, a few days ago, housed the community’s children.

Farra is propped against pillows, his lips puffed and scabbed, a bandage wrapping his torso. His face twists into a gapped grin when I poke my head around the door.

“There’s my favourite girl,” he says. “Come in. Is the commandant about?”

“He’s in Truso’s office.”

Farra’s grin broadens. “I meant your medic. She won’t even let me stretch my legs.”

I slide into the chair by the bed, colour rising in my cheeks.

“Brenon’s not so bad,” Farra tells me, his voice distorted by his missing teeth. “Likes to keep his mind on business. Forgets, sometimes, that there are people to think about along the way.”

“Saice is all right, too,” I tell him. “Though I wish Esha was here.”

Farra’s grin fades. “Aye, Esha was a fine one. She’ll
be a loss to Vidya, no doubt about it.” He pauses. “She sorted me out a few years back when I took a fall from a building. Messed myself up good and proper. I was working Decon then.”

Before grief has time to push its way back to the top of my heart, Farra launches into a story about the years he spent in Decon. Once or twice I even laugh at his recollections – which is no doubt his intent. An hour slides easily away.

“I see my patient has been resting as instructed,” Saice says dryly, when she next appears. She studies us a moment. “It seems to have done both of you good.”

Farra bares his swollen gums and gives me a wink. “The lass is a tonic. You should prescribe a dose to all your patients.”

Saice raises an eyebrow. “Did you see Brenon?” she asks me.

“He was busy with Truso.”

Lynd appears at the door. “Saice, two injuries just in. They’re in the med room now.” She gives Farra a nod.

Saice starts to follow then looks back at me. “Were you serious about that offer of help?” she asks. I swallow and stand up. She gives a tight smile. “Come on then,” she says. “Better see what we’ve got.”

Lynd marches ahead of us, talking over her shoulder. “One of the injuries is ours – gunshot wound in the right thigh. The other’s one of theirs.”

I glance at Saice. She doesn’t notice.

“What happened?” she asks.

“We tangled with one of their patrols. They must
have assumed we were locals or they wouldn’t have taken us on: we outnumbered them four to three. The decision cost them two men.”

We’ve reached the med room. She waves us in ahead of her. I stare at the men on the beds. One is lying with his arms locked stiff at his sides, teeth gritted, a rough bandage knotted tight around his thigh. The other man’s face is covered in blood. He lies on his side, blood flowing unchecked from a gash that runs from shoulder to elbow. Blood has run down to his bound hands and from there drips steadily to a spreading pool on the floor. He’s tethered to the bed by a thong knotted tight around his neck.

Saice glowers. As she moves to the man’s side, Lynd speaks out. “Ours first.”

Without turning, Saice raises the man’s bound hands. “After I’ve stopped the bleeding.”

“Ours first,” Lynd repeats.

“If you didn’t mean me to save his life, why bring him in?” Saice snaps.

Lynd shrugs. “Brenon wants a few for questioning.”

There’s a tense pause. Saice’s jaw clenches. “Ness,” she says finally. “Bring the suturing tray and press one of those pads hard against this gash. He’s losing too much blood.” She looks defiantly at Lynd. “He can’t question a corpse.”

“So let me understand this,” Brenon says slowly. “You heard noises so you came down to see what was happening. You didn’t think it might be dangerous, or that it would be better to wake an adult.”

“I don’t sleep well since … I just don’t. But that’s no reason why everyone else shouldn’t,” I tell him. “It might have been nothing.”

Brenon’s expression is impossible to read. “You are aware that your appearance at a critical juncture could have placed the whole operation in jeopardy?”

“I didn’t know anything about your ‘operation’. How could I?” Brenon seems to have forgotten that I stopped a man from shooting him.

His fingers tap the desk. “You and the other islander, Ronan: you were both there when our head of med-sci, Esha, was killed.”

I clamp my teeth. Why should it be relevant that Ronan and I come from the islands? Even after two years, it seems I’m still an outsider. I fold my arms and glare.

“I realise that’s it difficult, Ness,” Brenon says, “but I need you to go over your version of events.”

“There aren’t ‘versions of events’,” I snap. “There’s what happened.”

Brenon simply waits.

“Esha—” I begin. “Esha and Ronan and I were going to spend a week at Summertops. We cycled – Truso taught us. We’d been practising all week – at least, Ronan and I had.” I pause. “When we got to the top, where the saddle crosses the shoulder of Ebony Hill, we stopped.”

“Why?” Brenon interrupts.

“Because we were tired. Because it’s where you first see Summertops: the valley and the farm buildings. It looked … it looked peaceful.” I shake the shadow of the moment from my head. “Then there was a noise – I know now it was a rifle shot, but I didn’t then.” I hesitate.

“Did you get off the cycles when you stopped?”

“No.” Now that I’ve started, I wish he’d leave me to tell it. “Esha was standing right beside me, then there was the noise and she just … she fell.” I swallow. “There was a dark mark, a wound, on her temple.” My fingers find the place on my brow.

“You were lucky to escape.” Brenon’s mouth settles in a speculative twist.

A flush rises in my cheeks at his tone. Does he mean that he thinks I’m involved? But why? Because I don’t come from Vidya? I think suddenly of Colm; of the way he controls Dunnett through intimidation and bullying. My patience frays like rotted rope.

“Did you and Ronan know each other before you came to Vidya?” Brenon asks.

“We don’t even come from the same island group,” I snap. “And I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” I take a breath, while my temper bucks and stamps in my chest. “If that’s all, Saice will be expecting me in the med room.”

Brenon rests one finger across his lips, elbow propped on his folded arm, and considers me in silence. I’m about to turn and walk out when a tap heralds Lynd’s entry. After a single swift glance she ignores me.

“Reports are in from the patrols,” she says.

With a cursory wave, Brenon ushers me out. I duck past Lynd and close the door, not wanting to hear her account, not wanting anything other than to be as far from them both as I can.

Jago is in the kitchen when I go there seeking refuge – I’ve scarcely seen him the last few days. Ignoring the women chopping vegetables at the sinks, I grasp the hand he reaches out to me. It feels like a lifeline.

“How are you Ness?”

I force a smile.

“Saice tells me you’ve been helping in the med room.”

I nod. Jago gathers his breath and continues. “Esha probably never told you – she was a firm believer in letting people make their own choices – but she always felt you had an affinity for med-sci.”

I stare at him.

“When did you last eat?” Jago asks.

“Breakfast.” Saice and I had barely finished patching up the injured men when Brenon barged into the med room, barked at Saice, then demanded my immediate presence in his office.

Jago clucks his tongue in disapproval and reaches for a plate. “Sit down Ness. You can’t go missing meals.”

“I’ll do it,” I say.

He nudges me into a chair. “Let an old man believe he still has some uses.”

Tears blur my vision as I watch him, shoulders stooped, steps slow. Jago doesn’t think me an outsider.But then, he always thinks the best of everybody.

As he sets a laden plate in front of me, I dash a hand across my eyes.

“You’re tired, Ness. We all are.”

One of the women places a mug of fragrant tea by my plate. I meet her eyes. She gives me a slight smile. I wonder if my face shows as much strain as hers.

“Thank you, Aiya,” Jago murmurs.

“I feel as if we’ve been taken over already,” I mutter.

Jago nods. “Everyone feels it. Truso’s called a meeting.”

“When?” I ask, trampling down my impatience as he catches pace with his breath.

“Before dinner. To talk things through.”

I nibble at my bread. “Have you seen Ronan?”

“He’s gone with a patrol.”

I look up, startled. “I thought Brenon didn’t want any of us involved. He said—”

“Reconnaissance only – they won’t be involved in
fighting.” Jago pauses to draw a few battered breaths. “They’ve gone up to Dales and Pinehill.”

I think of the gunshot wound I helped Saice clean and stitch, and the men Brenon lost to a booby trap. “But why Ronan? Surely one of the men—”

“He volunteered. Zeek and Opi have gone too, and one of the scouts. They left an hour ago.”

The food has turned sour in my mouth. I wash it down with tea, angry that Ronan didn’t tell me. It’s not as if he hadn’t the opportunity – we spent the entire morning together. The thought simmers a moment, then I opt to be fair. “When did Brenon ask for volunteers?” I ask, my voice almost even.

“Lunch time.”

My emotions turn about. “When will they be back?”

“Tomorrow morning, maybe later.”

I finish my mouthful and stand. “I’ll be in the med room,” I tell Jago. “Can you get someone to fetch me, for the meeting?”

He dips his head, even that simple movement showing his age. “Try to get some rest, Ness.”

I shrug.

The scout we stitched up is asleep. The other man is gone.

Searching through a pile of worn linens, I find an old sheet and tear it into strips, rolling each into a tight white log. It won’t stay white for long, my fractious brain tells me. As feet tramp past the door I glance up: three men and two women, each wearing the shoulder badge of Decon. They look worn, but my sympathy has begun to run thin.

Beside me the wounded scout snores, his mouth partway open, head tilted back. The sleeping draught I gave him should keep him quiet till morning. A shaft of envy prickles through me. Adjusting his pillow, I place a hand on his brow. Infection will be his biggest enemy now. There’s no heat yet. Perhaps we cleaned the wound well enough and he won’t succumb. The bullet ripped through his thigh, shredding muscle but missing bone. Saice said he was lucky.

Turning my chair to face the empty bed, I lower my head onto my folded arms and close my eyes. Jago’s words float into my mind. Though she never spoke of it, I’ve known for a year that Esha hoped I might opt for a placement in med-sci. My resistance to the idea – and my unwillingness to discuss it – seem petty now. Partly, I’d been afraid that it would change our relationship; that if she became my teacher, I’d lose her as a friend.

I ball my fists. I’ve no energy for regrets. If we allow ourselves regrets, how would we ever find space for anything else?

Fixing in my mind the golden curve of Skellap Bay, I try to remember how many steps lie on the path that leads up to Uncle Marn’s farm, Leewood. It’s a technique Esha taught me when I had difficulty, during my early months in Vidya, finding a pathway into sleep. Resolutely I set Esha aside, slowing my breathing to match the sigh of the wind and the slow caress of sea on sand. Almost, I can smell the brine and feel the sharp spikes of sea-grass against my bare calves. Almost, I can hear a voice calling. Almost … almost, I find sleep.

As I doze, dreams form and fragment and disperse. Esha reaches to take my hand, one eye clear, the other darkening to red as the socket fills with blood. Her face shifts and it’s Merryn who watches me. I glance down and find that my hands are stained red, not with blood but with the juice of dark summer berries. Merryn is teaching me to mix one of the tonics she uses to treat the islanders’ ills. But the wound that opens in front of me is not one that Merryn would know, the flesh split like over-ripe fruit to show pips of bone. Someone screams as I probe the ragged flesh with a knife. I look up and it’s Ronan who lies, pallid as hoarfrost, on the bed. Down again, and his leg dissolves into pulp beneath my hands.

I start up with a gasp. My chest is heaving. I look wildly around, at the scout who snores in the other bed, at the shelves of supplies, at the door. It was a dream: nothing more than a dream. I can’t seem to close my eyes without images of the past few days tumbling in ragged currents through my mind.

Saice appears in the doorway. She smiles. “You’re awake: good. I came earlier but you were sleeping – you should have used the bed; you’d have been more comfortable. Jago said you wanted to be woken for the meeting.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I say, unravelling a half-rolled bandage from my arm.

“We all need more sleep than we’re getting,” Saice answers. She pours a glass of water and hands it to me. Someone has draped a blanket over my shoulders. It slides to the floor as I stand.

“How long did I sleep?”

“About two hours.”

“Is the other man all right? The para?”

Saice’s lips compress. “I don’t know. Brenon has removed him from our care.”

I think about the cells that Ronan and I cleared in the cellar.

“Come on,” she says. “Truso will want to get started.”

Truso looks haggard when I follow Saice into the hall. He raises a hand to acknowledge our arrival, but it feels more agitated motion than greeting. I wonder when he last slept.

“Right,” he says. The low murmur subsides. He clears his throat. “Brenon knows that I’ve called this meeting but he won’t be attending,” he announces. His fingers open and close, as if they can’t quite let go of something he no longer wants to hold. “I’m grateful that both Decon and Scouts are here, but Ebony Hill isn’t their home.” He pauses. “I know how hard this is. We all feel marginalised. Scared. We’re grieving.” He folds his arms then unfolds them. “The truth is that this is a long way yet from being over.” He looks around. “And that it will probably get worse before it gets better.”

The silence around the room is sharp as a blade.

“That being so, there are two issues I want you to think about: our children and Vidya.”

“What about our children?” someone asks.

Truso pounces. “Safety. The priority, our first priority, must be to ensure that our children are safe, and the safest
place right now is Vidya. I want to send them back. All of them.”

“You’re not suggesting our children return to Vidya without us?”

Truso scans the room. “As a temporary measure.” A low muttering starts up. He raises his voice to override it. “The same applies at Dales and Pinehill. Zeek and Opi have gone to talk to both communities. They’ll be bringing the evacuees back overnight.”

“You can’t mean to send them to Vidya alone,” Manet says. Her voice is hoarse, throat worn raw with weeping.

“Some of the women may like to go with them,” Truso agrees, “as well as our older residents and—”

A young woman steps forward. “Why the women?” she demands. “We’re needed here, now more than ever. There are women in Decon and Scouts. Are you suggesting we can’t cope?”

The murmurs rise to a rumble, though it’s impossible to tell which side of the argument it favours. Truso holds both hands in the air, palms facing the crowd. “To be honest, Rys,” he says, “I’m not sure that any of us can cope. All we can do is our best. We do know, however, that the women at Summertops are being held in,” he pauses, searching for words, “unfavourable circumstances.”

“And the men?” a female voice cries out. “What about our men at Summertops?”

“No male prisoners have been sighted,” Truso tells her.

A moan answers his words.

“You think they’re going to take Home Farm,” a voice accuses.

Truso shakes his head. “No. But that shouldn’t stop us from taking every precaution – and not just to ensure that our children are physically safe. Until this is over, Ebony Hill is no place for them. Some of you saw the injuries of the men who were brought in today. It’s not something children should see,” he adds.

“Maybe they should.” I recognise the owner of the voice from my field crew. “Maybe it’s important that they understand what we’re fighting against, and why.”

“Are you saying that being terrorised is good for them?”

“No, I—”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Rys interrupts. “This is my home and I’m prepared to die defending it.”

Saice steps forward. “I sincerely hope that it won’t come to that Rys,” she says, “but it is a possibility we each need to consider.” She glares around the room. “This is no game. Men and women from Scouts and Decon have already died defending us. There will be more deaths.” Her expression is bleak. “It’s my view that anyone who wants to return to Vidya should do so.”

“Each person has to make their own decision,” Truso says.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “If we each make our own decision, then I choose to stay.”

Truso glares at me. “Ness—”

“I’ve already offered Saice my help,” I say, chin raised.

“And given it,” Saice adds. She and Truso lock eyes.

Jago raises a hand, gathering stillness in his palm. “I’m too old to be of much use, but I also opt to stay. I’m not
up to rushing about,” he adds with a smile.

Truso doesn’t look pleased at our double mutiny. “No decisions have to be made right now,” he says.

“I want my daughter to go.” It’s Tanlin’s mother who speaks up. She looks nervous, clasping her hands as she looks pleadingly at Truso. “And when Sia gets back from Dales, she and I will go too.” Her eyes dart quickly round the room. “I’m not saying we won’t come back, just that for now I want my girls safe.”