“We should see if she needs help,” I said, tilting my head toward the kitchen.
Fade agreed with an alacrity that made me glad I’d suggested it. Had he once helped his mother in the kitchen? Clearly he knew what he was doing better than I did, so I took a seat at the table and watched them. He should be here with the Oakses, I thought. Not me. After the life I’d led, it wouldn’t bother me to be used for my labor. It was, in fact, precisely what I was used to.
But Fade? I wanted him to be happy, more than anything.
Bittersweetness
Over a fine meal of fried meat and potatoes, my foster family made an effort to get to know Fade. They asked him what it was like down below, and then about life with his parents in the ruins. At first, I didn’t think he felt comfortable talking, but the more Momma Oaks plied him with food, the less reticent he became.
Down below—and as we traveled—we’d survived on much less. So much to eat, freely given—and this was a basic meal by Salvation standards because it was left from last year’s growing season. This seemed to me like a land of plenty. Part of me still couldn’t believe Fade’s dad had been right.
“So you lived in Gotham with your parents?” Momma Oaks asked. “I don’t mean to touch on a painful subject, but how old were you when—”
“When they died?” Fade finished.
The older woman nodded. “Yes.”
I was fascinated because I’d never asked him much about his life Topside, mostly because I had no faith he’d answer me. I had failed to believe him when he wanted to talk, and that left him faintly angry on the whole subject. So I looked forward to his answers.
“I was around six when my mom passed, eight or nine when my dad did.”
Edmund and Momma Oaks shared a significant glance, though what about, I had no idea. “Were they … sick, son?”
Fade nodded, but from his expression, I sensed he didn’t want to talk further. His face tightened; his eyes dropped to his plate. Discussing the illness would bring all those memories to life again; there was no call to salt a good meal with old sorrow.
So I said, “This roast is delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”
“It’s pheasant,” Momma Oaks explained. “Hunters went out yesterday and we bought one of the birds.”
That gave me a pang. I would’ve liked to be included in a party that brought back meat for the settlement. It was what I ought to be doing, according to my training, not sitting in a schoolhouse. But we’d had that argument before when I first came to stay; and I had done well enough getting included in the summer patrols. One step at a time, I told myself. I couldn’t expect to circumvent all their rules right away. It was enough that here, unlike down below, some citizens like Longshot and Momma Oaks were willing to hear about other ways of doing things.
I could live with the consequences. After all, the women of Salvation couldn’t make life more complicated than they already did. Their whispers had followed me since my first day in town. Maybe they judged Tegan in the same fashion, and that was why she was trying so hard to fit in, making friends with their daughters. Whereas I chose to fight alongside their men.
After we ate, I did the cleanup while they chatted in the sitting room. The warm, soapy water felt soothing; it was a mindless task—scrub and rinse. Along with the sewing, this was one of my chores, and I was happy to do it in exchange for regular food in my belly. But I was starting to realize that even if I refused to help at all, Momma Oaks would still make sure I got fed. She was that kind of person.
It was full dark, so Edmund lit candles and lamps to brighten the gloom, a prettier glow than the torches down below, and they smelled better too. The air was all around fresher and cleaner here, even with Freaks stinking up the wasteland beyond. This was a cozy room, made more so by the warm yellow curtains on the window and the polished beams that framed the upstairs.
Momma Oaks settled in a chair next to her husband’s, which left the small sofa for Fade and me. He didn’t seem to mind, and he sat close enough to hold my hand. Since I’d kissed his cheek of my own free will before the whole town, guards and all, it seemed wrong to quail at this. My foster parents exchanged an indulgent look, amused at our affection, I suppose.
“We should have a story,” the older woman said.
Edmund appeared amenable. “Which one, Mother?”
It struck me strange that he used that as an endearment for her, as she clearly wasn’t his dam. But she didn’t argue it, so I didn’t either.
“You should tell the one about the founding of Salvation.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Mrs. James had relayed this tale before, and I invariably wandered away mentally, before the long, boring recitation concluded. But I didn’t want to hurt Edmund’s feelings when I’d only just realized that in his way, he cared what became of me. He wasn’t demonstrative like his wife, but he’d come out to the gate to make sure of my safety. So I squeezed Fade’s hand, telling him silently to be polite, and he returned the pressure with a half-smile so lovely that it made me forget my unvoiced objections to an extra history lesson.
“In the old days,” Edmund began, “humankind had horseless wagons that moved at incredible speeds and carriages that flew through the air. You could cross the whole country in just three hours if you took the flying carriage into the sky.”
I shook my head in disbelief. We’d seen the remnants of the horseless wagons, rusted and useless, in the ruins they called Gotham. But I had never seen anything that made me think there had been flying carriages; I couldn’t even imagine what they might look like. Birds, maybe? That sounded like the nonsense the Wordkeeper made up about the Topside world to keep us under control. Regardless, if Edmund had an imagination this powerful, his version might be more interesting than Mrs. James’s, especially if it became more fairy story than history lesson.
“They had machines to do their work for them: solve problems, cipher numbers, and print writing. People grew lazy. They knew too many blessings, and so they lost the ability to appreciate what they had. They always wanted more, more, more, and that road,” he intoned, “led down into darkness.”
“What happened?” Fade asked, sitting forward, wide-eyed at the idea of machines that could do arithmetic.
Surely he didn’t believe this. For a machine to count, it would need a head, wouldn’t it? And fingers? That would make the thing like a mechanical person. I shook my head with a faint smile. Such fancies might be improbable, but they made for an interesting tale.
“There came endless wars of escalation. The dragon fought the eagle, and the hydra wrestled the great bear. They sent fiery death unto each other, but even that was not sufficient for the demon humankind had become. They created new weapons, time and again, dust and powder and gas—”
I was drawn, despite myself. “What’s gas?”
“Like a mist,” Momma Oaks answered. “Only instead of rising up out of the ground, it came from men, and it was filled with poison that seared the lungs.”
Maybe that was why the Wordkeeper fixed on the idea that rain would scour our flesh from our bones. Stories had been passed down until they took a wrong turn, so poison gas became burning water. My tribe had been down below a long time, by any reckoning, and our reality lost touch with the actual state of the world.
“Some say it did worse than that.” Suitably somber, Edmund went on with his tale. “The world fell to chaos, and the pride plagues came.”
Momma Oaks answered the question before either of us could ask. I’m sure she read curiosity in our rapt expressions. “It was a disease that struck down great and small alike.”
Fade and I shared a significant glance. Both his parents had died from something he thought had to do with the water they drank. It sounded as if a lot of people had. I wasn’t positive pride had anything to do with it, but I didn’t like to interrupt.
Edmund gained enthusiasm for his story. “People fled the ruins in droves, taking only what they could carry. Some of our brightest visionaries pushed north, where it was reputed to be safe and clean.”
Like Fade’s dad told him.
“They left behind the devices and idols that had brought destruction raining down upon them. In time, they were led to this site by the prophet Matthew, who predicted they would find a safe haven that had been built twice before, and in building here that sacred third time, for three is the trinity and the holiest of numbers, we would find sanctuary from the world’s travails, so long as we cleave to the old ways and do not cast our eyes to habits that anger heaven.”
I had no idea what that meant, nor any notion why heaven would care what went on so far below. But I’d managed to stay focused on the story this time, which I counted as a good thing. For once, I’d learned about history without passing out from boredom. That was a credit to Edmund’s ability to spin a good yarn, and I said so.
“Thank you. That was way more interesting than Mrs. James.” But I had a question. “I’ve heard the pride plagues gave rise to the … Muties.” In my head, I still called them Freaks. “Is that true?”
“It’s one belief,” Edmund answered, nodding. “I can’t say whether it’s right.”
“Now, we should go up,” Momma Oaks said, casting a speaking glance at her husband, who rose immediately.
My foster father inclined his head. “We’ll leave you two to talk a bit. Mind you don’t stay up too late.” With that, the older couple retired.
The ceiling creaked overhead, as they readied for bed. It was a homey sound, one that reminded me I wasn’t alone. However unlikely, I had family in Salvation. Down below, only Stone and Thimble would have noticed my absence … and they wouldn’t have mourned me long. Death was too much an accepted part of our world for it to be a shocking event.
“I like them,” Fade said softly. Then he shifted closer, drawing me against his side as he had done to comfort me in the past. This time, it had other meanings, and I curled into him, accepting those new terms. His warmth felt delicious, sinking into my skin and making me indolent.
“They’ve been good to me.” I paused, thinking about the story Edmund told. “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”
“What part?”
“The world being like it is as some kind of punishment?”
He shook his head. “My dad never mentioned it. And he was right about a lot of other things. So it seems like it’s just something that happened.”
“Then why do you think they tell the story that way?”
Leaning his head against mine, he contemplated the question. He rubbed his cheek against my hair, and I was glad I had taken it down, so he could feel its softness, even if it wasn’t bright burnished like some. At last he answered, “People try to make sense of things, and if they don’t know the answers, they make them up, because for some, a wrong answer is better than none.”
That rang true, as it echoed what I had been thinking about the Wordkeeper earlier. “I guess. But I’d rather have the truth, even if it was uncertain.”