Page 22 of The Verdant Cage
I’m between chores, plotting my cellar break-in, when peripheral movement catches my attention. A flicker across the square, behind the chapel. My baby hairs stand on end, just as they did when I spotted the shadow before my mother’s killing. I charge forward on instinct. I don’t know what I expect—a murderer clutching a knife?—but then the shadow moves away from me, and I feel a burst of adrenaline. Someone was there!
To follow them risks a whipping or worse, the Tzus confining me to their home indefinitely if I fail to return in time for lunch, but my body bolts in pursuit before my brain can stop it. Heart in my throat, I race toward the retreating shape, not sure what I’ll do if I catch it. It seems to be hugging the shadows, racing through the inner ring of cottages, weaving through alleyways all the while, always just out of sight. The clouds in the sky distort it, warping it, turning it into something bizarre and inhuman.
Still I follow, running by the empty Chemist cottage, its shingle swaying in the breeze, its dark windows two bleak eyes staring at nothing. Trying to ignore the burning in my thighs, I wonder for the first time what’s inside the empty home. Do the books of their trade collect dust on the shelf, or have their texts gone to the Record Keeper? Will people be taken from existing Houses to form a new Chemist one? Why didn’t I question these things before? And more importantly, what else have I missed in my lifetime of near-perfect obedience to the rules?
I will my legs to move faster, narrowing the distance between myself and the periodic whirring sound I’m following, the noise helping guide me through the maze-like streets. We’re almost at the edge of the village. If whoever it is reaches the forest before me, I’m sure to lose them. I must catch up.
I’m nearing my physical limit when I get my first stroke of luck: my target has missed a shortcut, favoring the main road for a change.Gotcha.I skid to a halt, pivoting to dash through the narrow alleyway that funnels wastewater out of town. I run with one foot on either side of the aqueduct, the movement awkward. A few seconds later, I burst into the open, scanning the area before plunging between the next row of buildings. The main road curves up ahead, turning to the north and offering the shortest route between village and forest. I’m gambling that the shadow will be charging into the woods, and from this position I’ll be able to see them when they cross the prairie separating town from forest.
I’m catching my ragged breath, muscles tensed and about to take off, when a crack rings out from the woods. I recognize the sound—a branch falling from a tree—but reel back anyway. At the same time, the edge of the nearest cottage’s roof explodes. I instinctively drop to the ground, my face stinging. My birthmark is porcupined with tiny splinters. When I swipe at them with the cloth of my tunic, the fabric comes away bloody. Glancing up, I see what looks like a smooth rock embedded in the wall. Its impact must have released the shards of wood.
It’s not the first artifact from Beyond to fall into the Valley. Occasionally, a sharp rain that reeks of sulfur crosses overhead, or an eerie scrabbling is heard on the other side of the Wall, or there’s a boom followed by the ground quaking beneath our feet. One time, a chunk of sky-metal, rough and blackened, fell with a clatter that echoed through every home. That’s what this looks to be.
I glance toward the forest just in time to see the shape I’ve been following slip into the trees, offering me my clearest glimpse of it yet. Except…it can’t be. The thing in front of me glides forward with a grace that is entirely inhuman. It disappears into the woods, quick and fluid, as if moving without taking any steps at all.
What in the Wall?
I’m suddenly too terrified to follow. My hand travels to my pocket, seeking the wooden rabbit. When I wrap my hand around him, a memory surfaces from my childhood, a moment I haven’t recalled in years. It was the first field visit Jonas attended with me; we went to stitch up a Fisher who’d cut herself cleaning river trout. Dad had recently died, and Mom had declared us shorthanded without him, so Jonas—who’d always preferred woodworking to blood—was officially kicked out of the nest.
“Do you think someone from our House will be Harvested soon?” he’d asked on the way.
We were seven at the time. I’d been mentally running through the supplies we’d need, making sure my kit contained them all. Sterilized thread made from sheep intestines. Precious needles passed down from our ancestors, the first Apothecaries. Honey, which was available back then, to dress the sutures.
“What?” I asked absentmindedly.
“A Harvest,” Jonas said, his voice high. “Do you think our family will be honored soon?”
We’d witnessed a difficult Harvest the week before. The person selected had been old—Grandmother Bea of the second Farmer House—and very dear to the Valley. She had wailed her way through the ceremony, detained by Guardians and screaming blasphemies, even though there were children present. It’d been shocking. Unlike any Valley citizen, but especially her. Raising our voices in anger is frowned upon. She remained so defiant that she had to be sedated to be placed in the basket, the first time that had ever happened, as far as I knew.
Gran was the Apothecary tasked with administering the sedative.
Afterward, I’d asked Mom how Missus Huerta got to be so old without knowing what an honor it is to be Harvested.
“She was sick in the head, darling.”
I couldn’t let Jonas get sick, too. “We have to trust the system,” I blurted. “No matter what happens.”
“Of course, I’m so sorry,” he responded in a rush.
I immediately regretted the shortness of my answer. “I’m the one who should apologize,” I said. “I’m just worried about Meeman.”
It was true. The Fisher’s son had been as pale as a frog belly when he’d charged in and told us how much blood his mother was losing. I’d been surprised Mom had sent Jonas and me to tend to it.
“Meeman will be fine,” Jonas said proudly, the fear he’d expressed seconds earlier pushed aside to comfort me. “You’ll stitch her up real good. You’re the best Apothecary in the village.”
That wasn’t true. I had so much yet to learn. Still, it was nice for Jonas to say. “You’re so good with people, Jackrabbit. You’ll find your strength, too.”
He proved it that day. We came upon Meeman seated in the cleaning room, grasping her injured hand with a towel so drenched in blood it was impossible to tell what color it used to be. The room reeked of fish guts and iron, and if there was ever a smell to turn the stomach, that was it. I strode over and gently asked her to remove the towel. Her cut ran from one side of her hand to the other, her metacarpal bones a shock of white against the red gore.
I worried Jonas might pass out at the sight of it, but I had to focus on my patient. I administered a painkilling draught.
“That should take effect quickly, Missus Meeman, and relieve your pain enough for my sister to work,” said my twin. “Warm water, please,” he gently ordered her children, who were crowded in the corner, weeping.
I cleaned the wound and began the painstaking process of sewing Meeman’s palm closed, stitching from the inside out. Whether she’d have full use of her hand again depended on how clean and meticulous I was. It was with pride that I was perfectly able to realign the fish tattoo on the inside of her wrist, and I was pleased to discover that I couldn’t have asked for a better assistant than Jonas, who fed me thread as I needed it, kept my work surface sterile, and murmured soothing words to the Fisher that were well beyond his seven years.
He did such a good job that I had him dress the wound once it was closed. His honey-calendula application and bandaging were impeccable.
“Keep it clean and dry,” he told Meeman, “and let us know if it starts feeling hot or tight. We’ll come back to check it every day for the next week. Count on it.”
