I start to push myself to my feet but my body is suddenly slammed back down to the earth by a wave of dizziness. My head throbs. The air around me feels alive with electricity.
And then, once again from somewhere very far away, I hear it.
A woman’s voice. An ethereal whisper in the incoming storm. A commandment.
“Find me.”
My gaze whips in every direction, as I try to figure out where it could be coming from. Who could be saying it. But just like last night in the forest, I see nothing. I’m alone.
I close my eyes tight and listen carefully for the voice but now I hear only the wind and the morning crows, hungrily circling the newly planted crops.
Finally, I give up. Releasing a frustrated groan, I push myself to my feet again.
This time, nothing stops me.
8
DEPARTURE
When I arrive back in our room, I’m surprised to see that Zen is still sleeping. He’s usually awake with the morning light. Also, the bedroom seems warmer than usual. And there’s a distinctive stale odor.
I scurry over to the window, shoving it open. The crisp dawn air immediately refreshes the room. I stick my head outside and feel the sharpness of the cold oxygen seeping into my lungs.
But when I turn around, I notice Zen is shivering. A prickle of bumps spreading over his bare arms and back. I shut the window.
I get dressed quickly, stuffing my soiled nightdress at the back of the armoire to be dealt with later. Then I walk back to the bed and sit down next to Zen.
He doesn’t move.
I reach out to touch his cheek but recoil instantly when I feel how hot it is. Boiling. I pat the sheets around him. They’re damp.
“Zen?” I shake him lightly.
He rouses, struggling to open his eyes. And it’s not until now that I notice the heavy purple shadows beneath them. The reddish tint of the whites. His irises, which usually sparkle, have an unsettling dullness to them.
I study the rest of his body. His dark hair is matted against his forehead. His skin is pale, with a pasty yellowish hue, and there is no color in his cheeks. His face contorts in pain as he pushes himself up and swings his legs off the bed.
“Are you okay?” I ask in alarm.
He shivers and rubs his arms. “Yeah,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. His knees give out and for a moment he’s falling forward. In a flash, I’m in front of him, breaking his fall, catching him in my arms.
“Zen?” My voice is trembling.
“I’m fine.” He brushes me off, sounding almost on the verge of annoyance. “You know you shouldn’t move that fast inside the house.”
“I…” I start to argue, but my throat constricts, suffocating the rest of the words.
I move back and let him walk away from me. He steps into his breeches, wobbling slightly and steadying himself with one arm on the foot of the bed. “I’m just feeling a bit under the weather. I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” I suggest.
But he dismisses me with a shake of his head. “There’s too much work to be done.”
“But—” I try again.
Zen cuts me off. “It’s nothing. Really. I’ll have some hot porridge and I’ll be good as new.”
I watch him stagger out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I follow closely behind him in case he falls again.
Mrs. Pattinson is already in the kitchen working on the bread. I’ve always thought the way she handles dough is telling of her personality. Kneading it with violent, forceful thrusts, as though she’s attempting to murder it.
“Have either of you spotted my bread knife?” she says as soon as we appear at the base of the stairs.
I shake my head and avoid her gaze while Zen mumbles a negation, grabs a bowl from the table, and helps himself to the porridge that’s heating on the fire. Mrs. Pattinson takes one look at his face and her hands fall limp to her sides.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks brusquely.
I’m instantly relieved to see that I’m not the only one who noticed.
“Nothing.”
“Are you ill?” she presses.
Ill.
The word flashes before my eyes like a lightning bolt as I scramble to find a definition buried somewhere in my mind.
Ill: being in unsound physical or mental health. Sick.
“No,” Zen replies curtly. “I’m not ill. I’m perfectly fine.”
Mrs. Pattinson studies him, seemingly deciding whether or not to believe him. Zen ignores her, shoveling spoonfuls of steaming porridge into his mouth. I can’t help but notice that his hands are shaking.
Mrs. Pattinson goes back to beating the dough with the palm of her hand. “Well, I sure hope not,” she says with a quiet grunt, “because I’m sending the pair of you into London today to sell the surplus of apples and pears.”
“Us?” I ask in surprise, dropping my spoon of porridge. It plunks onto the table and Mrs. Pattinson gives me a disapproving look. I hurry to fetch a cloth and wipe up the mess.
“Yes,” she says sternly, beating her fist into the dough. “You’ll take Blackthorn and the wagon. It’s only an hour’s ride. You’ll leave straight after breakfast and return for dinner. That should give you enough time to sell the lot of it.”
The way Mrs. Pattinson gives the order, with such finality in her tone, I know there’s no use in arguing.
“We can’t go to
London
,” I whisper hoarsely to Zen as soon as we’re outside the house, heading toward the barn.
“Why not?”
“Why
not
?” I repeat, exasperated. “Because it’s a huge city. With people and inquiring eyes and suspicious glares. It’s far too risky!”
He shakes his head to dismiss my concern and lets out a small cough. He seems to be walking better now. Perhaps he
did
just need a good breakfast.
“It’ll be fun. Don’t worry, we’ll blend right in.”
“Maybe
you
will,” I counter. “But I’ve never been good at blending right in.” We reach the post where Mrs. Pattinson has tied up Blackthorn in preparation for our journey. He flinches when he sees me coming and I gesture vaguely at his reaction. “See? Even the stupid horse knows I don’t blend in!”
Zen stops and turns to me, taking both of my hands. “Shhh,” he coos. “It’ll be fine. Besides, we can’t stay cooped up here all the time. We can’t let fear keep us from living our lives. An occasional trip to London now and then won’t hurt. And besides, it’ll be good to have a change of scenery. Get your mind off things.”
I drop my gaze to the ground. I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the nightmares. The ones he wants me to forget. I choose not to tell him about my experiment with the knife this morning.
“And it’ll be nice to do something together. Alone.” He tilts his head down to look into my eyes again, flashing me that irresistible half smile that I’ve fallen in love with over and over again. “Won’t it?”
I admit the idea of seeing something besides the walls of this house and that barn is tempting. Thrilling, even. But the hot itchy sensation that crawls over my skin tells me it’s not a good idea.
“We’ll be extra careful,” he assures me, dropping my hands. “Just don’t go bending any iron bars or lifting any oxen over your head.”
I have to giggle, despite the near-debilitating fear that’s coursing through my veins. “I can’t bend iron bars,” I begrudgingly remind him as I follow.
He slaps his forehead. “That’s right. I was confusing you with Superman.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Who?”
He chuckles. “Never mind.”
“Well, what about you?” I ask, giving him a sharp stare. His skin still looks extremely pale. “Are you feeling well enough to go?”
He gestures to his fully functioning arms and legs. “I feel great now. That’s some powerful porridge.”
Zen enters the barn and returns with Blackthorn’s harness, throwing it over the horse’s back. Blackthorn eyes me skeptically as Zen works to attach the harness to the cart.
I start loading the extra apples that Mrs. Pattinson has allotted into the back and then climb onto the bench. Blackthorn snorts in disapproval and stamps his foot. But Zen is quick to put him at ease, as he does everyone who seems to distrust me. He walks up to him, pats him gently on the face, and whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, old man. She’s not that bad.”
I let out a huff. “Well, thanks.”
Zen smiles, grabs the reins, and hops up to sit beside me. He gives Blackthorn the signal to go and suddenly we’re off, trudging through the tall grass on the outskirts of the property, until we reach the dirt road that will take us into town.
I turn and watch the small farmhouse, where we’ve spent the past six months of our lives, get smaller and smaller behind us. Although I know it’s only my imagination, through the
clip clop
of Blackthorn’s hooves on the ground, the rumble of the wheels beneath us, and the hiss of the wind whizzing past my ears, I swear I hear it whispering goodbye.
9
STORMS
Throughout the hour-long drive, I steal quick glances at Zen from the corner of my eye, taking note of his slouched posture, sagging cheeks, and general air of fatigue. I ask him repeatedly how he’s feeling and every time he answers, quite snappishly, that he’s fine.
But he certainly doesn’t
look
fine. Every few minutes he has to cough and he’s been consistently wiping perspiration from his brow even though the weather is actually quite cool today.
I glance up at the gray sky and wonder when it will start raining. I hope it’s not while we’re out. I’m certainly no expert in illnesses but I have a feeling being outside in the rain isn’t the best thing for someone who looks as awful as Zen does.
When we arrive in the city, Zen steers the cart into the marketplace and pulls Blackthorn to a halt. I sit paralyzed in my seat. Trying to take in the chaotic scene that is playing out in front of me.
I’m starting to feel like I left my stomach back on the farm.
Zen seems oblivious to my reaction. He’s too busy marveling. Mumbling something about how it looks exactly like it does in the movies. I don’t even know what a movie is so I don’t share his admiration. All I feel is sick. And a burning desire to turn around and sprint as fast as my genetically enhanced legs can carry me back down the road that brought us here. At top speed, I could probably be back on the farm in less than ten minutes.
I’m not sure what I expected to see. The only other towns or cities I’ve been to are Wells Creek and Los Angeles. But this city is
nothing
like either of those. Instead of stores and buildings, there are hundreds of little stalls set up along the perimeter of the square. Each one selling something different. Like meat, cloth, vegetables, bread, grain, and live animals in wooden cages. People are milling about, calling out orders, and haggling over prices. One woman walks past us pulling a rope attached to a goat, while another passes in the other direction holding a dead chicken by its feet. I assume it was recently alive due to the fact that it still has its feathers and its eyes are wide open, revealing the same terrified look I saw on the faces of the bodies floating in the ocean with me after the plane crash.
There are no markings on the ground or signs on poles to direct traffic. But somehow the varieties of different-sized wheeled contraptions pulled by horses and oxen manage to weave effortlessly around one another, as though they can read the oncoming drivers’ thoughts.
Zen hops down from the cart, taking a moment to steady himself before starting to unload the produce from the back, stacking the crates of apples and pears. I can tell he’s struggling and I quickly jump down and walk around to help him.
As I work, I can’t help but wince at the foul smell in the air. It’s much worse than the odor in the Pattinsons’ barn when the pig sty is due to be cleaned. I scrunch up my nose, lean in close to Zen, and whisper, “What is that?”
Zen nods, letting me know he smells it, too. “No indoor plumbing. People toss their waste into the street.”
The thought makes me want to retch but I somehow manage to avoid it.
“I think we’ll get used to it,” Zen says hopefully. “Everyone here seems to have.”
After the last crate has been unloaded, Zen points to a small gap between two of the stalls on the other side of the road. “I think we should set up there.” He turns to me and winks. “If we sell all this stuff fast enough, maybe we can even go exploring for a little while.”
I nod, acting like the idea excites me as much as it seems to excite him, even though just standing here in the middle of all this commotion is setting my entire body on edge.
“We should really see Shakespeare performed at the Globe,” he says, then leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “before it burns down in four years.”
“It burns down?”
He nods. “Unfortunately. A cannon sets fire to the roof during a production of
Henry VIII
. They rebuild it a year later, though.”
“You seem to know a lot about Shakespeare,” I point out.
Zen picks up one of the crates. He seems to exert an obvious amount of effort but he still manages a crooked grin as he says, “I researched him for you. After you read ‘Sonnet 116,’ you had to know everything there was to know about him.”
Despite my frayed nerves, this makes me smile. “Then we definitely should go see one of his plays when we’re finished.”
He nods and nudges his chin toward the cart. “It doesn’t look like we can park here. Why don’t you walk Blackthorn to that hitching post over there and then help me carry everything.”
I notice how he struggles to balance the crate in his arms, the unnaturally thick layer of sweat that appears on his upper lip, and the way his face seems to be losing color by the second. I nibble nervously on the tip of my finger. “Actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and helpful, “maybe
you
should tie up the horse and
I’ll
start moving the crates over.”
Zen lets out a stutter of a laugh that quickly turns into a violent cough, causing him to nearly drop the box. “Sera,” he says sternly, “you have to get over your fear of that horse someday.”