Authors: Jen Minkman
I think hard times would be over in no time
at all if only the Bookkeeper would adopt a clear position, but
strangely enough, he hasn’t yet. Nathan did blacklist all the
Phileans who were somehow involved in riots and protest marches,
but he hasn’t once organized an assembly in the square to address
all Hope Harborers and tell them there is no point in aggressively
holding on to the past – with an emphasis on ‘aggressively’.
Mulling over everything, I walk back home,
where I find the house empty. My parents are both still at work. I
pick up an apple from the fruit bowl and venture back out while
munching on my late lunch.
During the trip back to Hope Harbor, I’ve had
plenty of time to think about what I would like to discuss with
Nathan, but now that my feet find their way to his residence, I’m
not so sure what to say anymore. Some acting assistant I am.
“I think you should organize a meeting,” I
unceremoniously dump my idea on his unsuspecting head when I step
into his library and walk over to the table he’s sitting at.
Nathan looks up, surprise in his eyes. “For
whom?”
“Everybody. Let them know where you
stand.”
He sighs. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, it should be. How can you choose not
to speak out against Phileas and his demented cult?” I snap at
him.
A frown knits his eyebrows together. The
Bookkeeper isn’t used to me speaking to him like this. “Alisa, the
people are confused. They are looking for new meaning in their
lives, and some people are having a hard time finding it. So they
desperately cling to old wisdom.”
“But they’re vandals,” I mumble.
“I know.” He gets up and puts his hand on my
shoulder. “But it’ll blow over.”
I shut up, because I’m afraid I’ll get
really,
really
angry if I do speak. I don’t believe for a
single second that it will blow over. With clenched fists, I take a
step back. “If you really think so,” I finally mumble.
“We’ll give it some time,” he nods.
After that, we talk about the secret wharf
near Newexter. I tell Nathan that Carl hired me as his courier to
travel between the two towns. He immediately writes a letter to the
Eldest that I can take with me on my first run tomorrow afternoon.
After delivering that, I have to pick up a newsletter from Terry,
who heads the team in the east. Secretly, I am glad I can flee the
scene again soon – Hope Harbor isn’t getting any better,
climate-wise. Tension between citizens is building, our squad of
Peacekeepers is overworked and understaffed, and we still need more
people patrolling the Wall.
That night, I drop by Ben’s place. He’s
sitting on the quay in front of his cottage, smoking a cigarette
with a face that spells disgust instead of enjoyment.
“Why are you smoking if you don’t like the
taste?” I tease him, sitting down next to him.
Ben looks up. “It makes me relax,” he
replies. “I just have to get used to the smokes over here. We
always smoked different cigarettes in the manor house. Saul picks
the best leaves.”
“I could bring you some if you want. I’m
going back there tomorrow. Delivering a letter to the Eldest and
getting news from Terry. Where do they sell your favorite
tobacco?”
Ben shakes his head. “The best stuff isn’t
for sale,” he says. “But…”
“But what?” I prompt him when he falls
silent.
“You could drop by Saul and ask him. And then
maybe I can write a letter to him that you can delivers. You know,
so he hears from me every now and then.” Ben doesn’t look at me
when he makes the suggestion. He nonchalantly takes a drag of the
cigarette he doesn’t like.
“Sure,” I shrug. “Could you write something
now? I don’t want to drop by here tomorrow just to pick it up. Too
much hassle.”
“Fine.” Ben jumps up a tad too quickly to
successfully maintain his mask of indifference.
A few minutes later he reappears with a
hastily-scribbled note on old wrapping paper. “Here you go,” he
says. “Only if you’ve got time.”
I smile. “Are you leaving for St Martin now?”
I say, lowering my voice as though his assignment really needs to
remain a secret.
Ben looks furtively around him. “Yes, two
colleagues are giving me a ride in their carriage.”
“Good luck.” It must be kind of painful to
work on a ship that isn’t ever meant to be finished, but nobody
objected to my plan. I hope it will work.
The next morning, I set out to the temple to
do Daryl a favor. He asked me to stand guard there with two
colleagues. Samuel Senior’s progressives are using the side
entrance to haul out expensive temple attire and other valuable
objects in order to redistribute them among our less well-off
citizens. Near the main entrance, a few peaceful Phileans are busy
repairing the pillars that were damaged during the revolution. It
doesn’t look like a fight between the two groups will erupt any
time soon, but it’s best to err on the side of caution.
“What are you doing?” Wesley, one of my
colleagues, addresses an elderly woman who passes us carrying a
bucket of paint.
“We’re painting over the damaged bits,” she
replies with a smile. “The holes were patched up with plaster
yesterday, so now all they need is a new coat of paint.”
“All right,” he acquiesces. “If any of Sam’s
men bother you, let us know.”
All the hubbub caused by Phileas almost made
me forget that his opponent’s devotees aren’t exactly famous for
their social skills either. Everybody who as much as hints at
wanting to keep the temple intact is sure to get snubbed by them.
Walt would never have put up with all of it, especially not after
the whole speech he held at his grandpa’s funeral ceremony. But
Walt isn’t here.
What is the best way to deal with the
situation? Gloss over the dents in our faith by giving it a new
coating, or do away with our old rituals all at once? There should
be a midway solution, but I’m having a hard time finding it.
Once my morning shift is over, I happily take
off to meet the Bookkeeper for the second part of my day. The
tension between the progressives and the Phileans sucks up all of
my energy, even though nothing of significance happened. I mount
the horse that was given to me to run my errands and fall into a
slow trot on my way to the Bookkeeper’s residence. One of his
domestic servants hands me the letter I am supposed to give to the
Eldest – which is partly a valid excuse to send me to Newexter, of
course – and very soon, I am once again on my way to the unknown
lands in the east, this time by myself.
Using Walt’s secret pathway is out of the
question on horseback, so I follow the main road and let my mare
make her way uphill at a leisurely pace. It takes about an hour to
get to the small checkpoint keeping an eye on the passageway
connecting the western and eastern Scilly Way.
“Good afternoon, Miss Alisa,” the guard
greets me. He is a good friend of my dad’s, so he’s known me since
forever. “Where’s the current taking you?”
I show him Nathan’s letter. “To the Eldest.
The Bookkeeper is trying to keep in touch regularly, so you’ll see
much more of me in the days to come.”
“Then I wish you fair winds and following
seas. You know the way?”
“Yes, I’ve been here before.” Although I
won’t take the route past the old manor house, but it’s safe to
assume that the Scilly Way will lead me straight to the village
square.
The afternoon has turned scorching hot by the
time I get to the village hall. I spot a trough filled with fresh
water and lead my horse there to let her drink first before heading
into the hall. The same lady who announced my visit to the Eldest
yesterday is sitting at reception.
“We were expecting you,” she says pleasantly.
“He has asked me to give you this letter from Terry.” She pushes an
envelope made of strange, brown paper across her desk. I wonder
what they use to make paper here – probably other plants than we
do. Suddenly I have to think of Ben’s tobacco.
“Thank you.” Absently, I put my own letter on
the table. “And here’s the Bookkeeper’s letter to the Eldest. I’ll
be here again tomorrow to deliver and collect new letters.”
The assistant gets up and disappears through
a door, re-emerging seconds later with a mug of water. “You must be
thirsty,” she says. “It’s a hot day to be on the road.”
I’m so parched that I could down the entire
cup in three large gulps, but I’m deliberately prolonging the
moment. Once I have finished my drink I will have to go back
outside again, which means I will have to go and see Saul to
deliver Ben’s letter. The idea makes me more nervous than I
expected. Which is stupid – what is there to worry about? Saul will
probably be elated when he finds out I’m bringing him news from
Ben. Or less sullen than he was last time, at the very least.
With an anxiously-beating heart, I swing into
the saddle and spur on my mare to follow the uphill path snaking
away from the village hall. She hesitates, as if she can sense I’m
not quite sure I want to go here. Or maybe she feels the dead are
buried here. The idea still gives me the creeps.
When I dismount in front of the cabins, I
don’t see anyone on the grassy clearing. Maybe Saul isn’t home. I
stalk toward his house and knock on the door, but no one
answers.
“He’s running errands,” I hear a familiar
voice say. A voice with a clear Hope Harbor accent.
When I whip around, my eyes meet Finn, the
dark-blond, youngest priest of our town. The banned thief and
murderer.
“Oh,” I manage to choke out. “Will he be
long?”
“I don’t know.” Finn’s slate-gray eyes bore
into mine. His beard is no longer neatly trimmed – the hairs look
frizzy and unkempt. Did he always have this many wrinkles? He looks
like he aged a decade within the span of mere weeks.
“I have a message for him.” Hesitantly, I
hold out Ben’s note, then change my mind. Ben wouldn’t want me to
give Finn his letter. There’s nothing for it – I will have to wait
for Saul’s return.
“How – how are things over in Hope Harbor?”
Finn asks quietly.
I don’t want to talk to this man. Whether he
was really involved in Yorrick’s murder or not, he must have known
about it.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, recoiling from
the ex-priest. “Leave me alone.”
Finn pales. “Okay,” he just says, turning on
his heels and rushing off so fast it’s as if Jesse is chasing him.
For one immeasurable second I feel guilty about driving him away,
and powerful because I can at the same time. For being able to
scare away this man who lied to us for years and years. Then, I
wrap my arms around myself and stare into the distance, at the
trees swaying in the wind. Unmoved by the human drama unfolding on
the island.
I jump out of my skin when Saul seems to
emerge out of nowhere. I must have been deep in thought not to hear
him approach. “What are you doing here?” he asks, not unkindly. A
leather bag filled with groceries is dangling from his
shoulder.
“Ben wants some tobacco,” I explain a bit
clumsily, turning red when Saul slowly cocks an eyebrow.
“Does he now?” He smiles faintly. “What, he
thinks I won’t be able to refuse you?”
“I had to come here anyway,” I reply. “I’m
the courier between east and west. Here, Ben has written you a
letter.” I quickly hand him the crumpled paper.
His mouth quivers almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you.” This time, there is no mockery in his voice. He puts
down his bag of groceries and sits down on a stool next to his hut
to read Ben’s note.
I don’t really know what to do. Gaping at
Saul as he reads his letter seems inappropriate, but taking a
stroll and accidentally bumping into Finn or Bram is even less
appealing. I bend down to pick up the bag and take it inside to
unpack his purchases. Saul has fixed some shelves along the wall
opposite the door. He keeps other food there, so that’s where I put
the contents of the bag. In the corner, I see a table holding a set
of ceramic cups and a jug that turns out to contain elderberry
water. Since my mother always tells me that Annabelle favors the
bold, I pour myself a cup and then go on to fill another one for
Saul.
When I step back outside, he is still sitting
where I left him. He has put the letter in his lap and stares at
the other cabin, a dull pain in his eyes. As soon as he sees me, he
sits up straight and puts on his mask of nonchalance. “Make
yourself at home,” he says deadpan, shooting a glance at the two
cups I’m holding.
“I also unpacked your groceries,” I comment,
as if I need to defend myself, before handing him his drink. “Here,
have some.”
I plunk down in the grass next to his stool
and avoid his dark eyes. I only look back up when Saul pulls out a
packet of dried leaves from his pants and starts rolling a
strange-looking cigarette.
“You want one too?” he inquires with a
lopsided little grin. “This is what you came for, right?”
I eye the dried plants suspiciously. “What is
it, exactly?”
“This is what the Unbelieving savages of the
east smoke for pleasure,” Saul replies tauntingly. “The substance
Ben sent you out to get by braving enemy territory.”
The only person I ever smoked with was
Yorrick. After his death, I quit. It reminded me too much of being
with him. “Yeah, give me one,” I say, to my own surprise. “Relaxing
might be good for me.”
He nods briefly and starts rolling another
cigarette. “Will you get the candle from inside?”
“I could take them inside and light them
there,” I suggest.
Saul shoots me a gauging look. “So this is
not your first time,” he establishes, and somehow he makes it sound
as if he’s talking about something else.
I blush, snatch the cigarettes from his
outstretched hand, and stalk inside to light them in the candle
flame. Closing my eyes for a moment, I exhale deeply. Why am I
letting Saul get to me like this? I know his kind. His tough
attitude shouldn’t get under my skin. Because that’s what it is –
an attitude. He’s acting tough to hide his insecurity. Just like
Yorrick.