The Divide Page 11

  Intestines.

  A stomach.

  The thing’s digestive track is burning up.

  Hungry.

  And just like before, my view of this horrible reality is head on.

  Which means…

  It knows I’m here.

  I take a step away from the tree. It might not be able to see me, but it knows I’m nearby. And when it figures out where…

  I take two steps and am sucker-punched by another round of the chattering. My eyes clench shut and my foot comes down on a root. I know how to take a fall without injury, and without a lot of noise, but I’m disoriented by the monstrous noise. I fall flat on my stomach with an, “oof” that’s accompanied by a crunch of dry leaves.

  In the silence that follows, I remain still, hoping that the dry clapping sound drowned out my tumble.

  The ground shakes from a footfall.

  And then another.

  By the third, I’m sure the Golyat knows where I am. I confirm it by glancing back as I push myself up. Through the vertical slits between the maze of trees, I can see a dark leg pushing through the smoke. While most of it is lost in the gray haze, the black, gaunt foot large enough to crush an elder’s hut is unmistakably human…in a long-dead kind of way. The thick, striated nails peel back in layers, like mica.

  And that’s all I see, because my only hope now is to give up on stealth and try to outmaneuver or outwit the beast. In the open, I doubt it would take more than a few long strides for it to close the distance between us. Here, in the forest, while I can run through trees and ground cover with relative ease, the Golyat has to trailblaze a new path.

  Trees crack and topple behind me, thumping against the earth, joining the cacophony of the monster’s pursuit.

  Despite my sore and wounded legs, I’ve never run so fast in my life. The part of my mind that registers pain, exhaustion, and the need for more air is switched off. The primal part of my brain—what my father called the ‘fight or flight’ instinct, present in all animals, including people—has taken over. It’s numbed me to anything beyond running.

  The rapid tap, tap, tap, of my feet over the dried forest floor is joined by the deep rumbling thud of the Golyat’s feet. For every ten taps there is one thud, and a half dozen cracks as trees are felled or cleared of their branches.

  When I notice I’m running uphill, a direction that will ultimately lead to me collapsing a little sooner, I turn right and run along the grade, weaving back and forth, the way I’ve seen deer do a thousand times. A herd of deer, moving as one, often evades a predator. But as soon as one, such as me, finds itself exposed and alone…

  I get angry, as that thought was dangerously close to resignation.

  From the Golyat’s perspective, it is chasing something small and living. I doubt it’s seen enough of me to recognize me as human. If I can escape it, perhaps there is still a hope of hiding humanity’s presence.

  Wishful thinking, I’m sure, but it’s the best motivation I can conjure.

  And then I see Salem’s small face and wide eyes, age seven, listening as I related one of my father’s stories.

  Salem is here because of me, and he brought the Modernists with him. This is my responsibility, and I will see it through.

  Noble thoughts and intentions, but ultimately not nearly enough.

  I glance back and see a confusing wall of black rushing toward me. When I see the horizontal gaps, I see the wall for what it is—a hand. The fingers have already begun to curl, just a second away from grasping me.

  A hard turn, back uphill, puts a tree between myself and the hand, which wraps around the trunk and lifts. Roots tear from the ground with an explosion of soil that sends me sprawling. As dirt rains down into my eyes and mouth, I hear my name, “Vee!”

  “Shua?”

  “Over here,” he says. I can’t see him through the falling dirt, but I can hear him.

  I run for the sound of his voice, blinded by the mud in my eyes.

  “Hurry!” he says, closer now.

  A roar pursues me, followed by another round of chattering that draws an uncommon scream from my mouth.

  The Golyat is dismantling me, body and soul, tenderizing its meal.

  The shush of leaves that slides through a forest when a tree is felled grows louder behind me. In my mind, I can see the tree toppling through the air toward me. Its weight will smear me into the ground, its jagged bark shredding away my clothing and skin. I can almost feel it against me.

  And then I do, but not from behind. The blow comes from in front.

  And it’s the last thing I feel.

  18

  “She’s a lot like your son,” are the first words I hear upon waking, and I don’t recognize the speaker as Plistim, until Shua replies. “Impulsive?”

  “Smart,” Plistim says. “And impulsive. The second without the first leads to folly, but she appears to possess equal parts of both, making her—”

  “Dangerous.” I attempt to sit up, but the pain in my head keeps me laid out. Light trickling in reveals our hiding place. To call it a cave would be an overstatement. It’s a hollow beneath a tree, perhaps dug out by bears. Roots hang from the ceiling, just five feet overhead, like stalactites. The air is thick with dirt-flavored dust, already tickling my nose.

  “I was going to say, ‘an asset,’” Plistim says. “But both are accurate.”

  “A compliment from the great Plistim.” The words come out sounding a bit slurred, but adequately express my sarcastic contempt. “I’m thrilled.”

  Shua, Plistim, and Shoba are seated in a small half circle, all of them facing me. They’re huddled together, gear stowed behind them, giving me space to lay sprawled. There is barely room for the four of us.

  My instinct is to further taunt Plistim, but my distaste for the Modernist leader is dwarfed by my fear of the Golyat. “What happened?”

  When Plistim smiles, my annoyance returns. When Shua smiles, I cringe and close my eyes. “I ran into a tree, didn’t I?”

  “Straight into it,” Shua says, gently slapping one hand into the other, pantomiming the event that robbed me of consciousness for the second time in a day.

  Burying my pride in a hole far deeper than the one hiding us, I say, “Thank you, for recovering me.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Shua says, nodding toward Shoba.

  “Then, thank you,” I tell the girl.

  She nods and says, “You’re heavier than you look.”

  A laugh coughs from my mouth before I have time to reign it in. I’m among the worst enemies of humanity, short of the Golyat. I should not be laughing. That, and the pain bursting behind my eyes, makes the laugh short-lived.

  In the silence that follows, a heavy weight falls over the group. We’re huddled below ground, deep in dangerous territory. We have no idea where we are, and other than ‘south to Salem,’ no clear destination. And there is no hope of convincing Plistim and his family to return to New Inglan. It would be a death sentence. For me, too.

  If I could kill them all myself, I would. But that’s unlikely, partly because their large number is scattered, and because defeating Shua is equally unlikely. My only option is to help keep these people hidden from the Golyat and hope they all manage to fall off a cliff together.

  Shua slides closer to me and reaches out for my head.

  I flinch back. “The hell are you doing?”

  He smiles—he’s always smiling—and says, “Checking your bandage. Running into a tree has consequences.”

  The trouble with wishing the Modernists would collectively fall off a cliff is that they’re all so damn nice. Despite my intentions being well known, not one of them has treated me poorly. And now they’ve saved my life. Even Plistim, whose reputation is of a ruthless, fringe leader of fanatics, seems like a kind old man who is simply doing what he believes is best for his rather large family.

  Misguided, yes. But, evil?

  Shua peels a bandage away from my forehead. It sounds slick and squishy. When t
he open air hits my wounded skin, the throbbing pain in my head is joined by a sharp sting.

  “It will be an attractive scar,” Shua says.

  Micha’s other wives would shriek at the very hint of a scar, but those of us who live in the wild tend to wear them like badges. Scars add character, and tell stories. A lack of scars reveals a lack of living. Really living.

  I graze my fingers across my forehead, feeling an array of small, open wounds, and then a longer stitched up gash. The stitches are tight and strong, worthy of Grace’s capable skills.

  “Thank you again,” I say to Shoba, and the girl tries hard not to laugh.

  She points to Shua. “That was him.”

  A deep breath and a sigh marks my resignation to stop assuming the Modernists fit preconceived notions about the roles of men and women. After all, I am an elder’s wife and a shepherd. I’m as much a social oddity as any of them.

  I close my eyes, focusing on the world beyond our hiding place, as my blood-soaked forehead grows tacky in the summer heat. A breeze sifts through the treetops, the sound relaxing. Birds sing, their melodies pleasant. The ground is still. I detect no hints of smoke. Our hole smells of earthy decay, which reminds me of childhood.

  “Well?” I open my eyes, looking at Shua, who has yet to take his eyes off me.

  “What?” he says.

  “Where is it?”

  Shua sags back a bit. “Gone. It searched for you, and when it did not find you, it vented its frustration on the forest. Then it left.”

  “In which direction? And don’t you dare shrug.”

  He stops mid-shrug. “We haven’t left since pulling you in.”

  I’m about to ask why, but the answer is clear. The Golyat isn’t smart, but it’s not dumb, either. Who’s to say it didn’t feign its departure and is sitting out there, waiting for me to emerge? It wouldn’t be the first predator to prepare an ambush outside its prey’s den.

  I feel it’s unlikely, but caution when facing the unknown is prudent.

  Then again, Salem is out there in this horrible place, perhaps injured, and afraid. Motherly instincts I’ve been suppressing for years flare to life. I had been prepared to kill my son, but now that the act would serve no greater purpose, I find my hard heart softening. I had planned a swift death in loving hands for the boy. But out here, his life could be ended by the Golyat. And I wouldn’t wish that on my enemies.

  When I push myself up again, I manage to rise into a sitting position. I pause, as the pain in my head becomes unbearable, and then ebbs with each beat of my heart. “If none of you is brave enough to take a look, I—”

  Shua places his hand on my arm, as though tempting me to swat it away. Strangely, I don’t. “The day is nearly over. Better to rest. And if the Golyat remains, perhaps it will give up during the night.”

  I concede the point by lying back down. When the resurgence of pain fades, I ask, “What did you bring to eat?”

  “Nothing still bleeding,” Shua says, making me smile again. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  He slides away for a moment and returns with dried fruit. When I frown, he holds up a strip of what I can best describe as petrified meat. “What…is this?”

  “Our ancestors called it ‘jerky.’ The meat is marinated in brine and herbs, and then dried. It requires no cooking and the meat remains unspoiled for two years.”

  “Two years? But—”

  “Why isn’t the process used among all the tribes?” Plistim finishes, and then answers, “Because the drying process sometimes requires a small flame. The elders believed one taste of jerky would lead to outright cooking among all the tribes. To maintain control, the practice was outlawed. In Aroostook, we perfected it.” He motions to the dried meat in my hand. “Try it.”

  I take a hesitant bite and chew twice before the flavor hits me. The cooked meat I had as a child, and all the raw meat I’ve consumed over the course of my life tasted like warm shit compared to this. It’s almost enough to bring tears to my eyes, somehow both sweet and salty. It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.

  “This is how they got fat,” I say, and I take another bite. Then another.

  “Who got fat?” Shoba asks.

  “In the world before.” The words, spoken with a full mouth, are hard to understand.

  “In the world before,” Plistim says, “the food was far better than this.”

  Such a thing, like the Golyat, is beyond my ability to imagine. I eat all the meat, followed by the fruit. When I’m done, Shoba offers me a drink of water. I thank her, lie back, and fall asleep.

  I dream of my son.

  Running.

  Screaming.

  He’s snatched from the ground by a black hand. Long fingernails dig into his skin as he writhes and falls away.

  Salem hits the ground running, and I note that he looks like he did when he was ten, long hair flowing behind him. As the ground shakes, his course takes him alongside a deep swamp.

  I yell to him, but he doesn’t hear me.

  He’s showing off now, oblivious to the danger.

  The hand reaches out again, but misses.

  Relief is my companion for a moment, but then Salem trips and careens into the black water.

  And then, I’m there, standing where the black hand had been. I look down at myself, skin charred like the Golyat.

  “He can’t swim,” I whisper, charging toward the water. “He can’t swim!”

  I dive into the deep, fighting lily pads and tangles of aquatic plants. The water is dark and murky, impossible to see in.

  My son is gone.

  Drowned, because I drove him away.

  I awake, sitting up fast, instantly aware of my surroundings and the sharp pain of my wounds. I swat and kick the others. “Get up. All of you.”

  “What’s happening?” Shoba asks, fear shaking her whispered voice. “Is it back?”

  I point to the bars of roots shielding us from the outside world. The rising sun cuts through the open spaces. “It’s time to go.” With that, I gather my bag, fight against weary muscles and mending skin, and push my way out of the earthen alcove.

  Lying on my back, eyes to the sky, I half expect to see the Golyat standing above me. But the sky is clear. I roll to my feet with a grunt and scan the forest, much of which has been decimated by the Golyat’s temper tantrum. The monster is nowhere to be seen, or smelled.

  “It’s safe,” I say, looking back at the hiding spot, which was created when a tree was partially toppled, probably during a wet storm, tearing some of its roots from the ground. It landed against a second tree, and remained living, its hanging roots stretching down to the ground, creating a natural lean-to.

  While the others slide out of the earth, I get my bearings and then note the Golyat’s path. “It’s headed north.” The words relieve me, but not Plistim.

  “It’s going for the others,” he says, his frown deep.

  While Salem landed south of our position, the rest of Plistim’s family descended to the north.

  I expect Plistim to follow in the giant’s footsteps, but he turns away from the monster’s clear path and strikes out south. “Let’s go. Salem will need us.”

  When everyone follows without debate, I realize those four words—‘Salem will need us’—is the common ground that unites us. Without him, this temporary alliance would come to a sudden, and likely violent, end.

  19

  I set the pace and am pleased when everyone manages to keep up. Then I realize that might be because the pain in my legs and head keep me from running. In a moment of determination, I move at a sprint, hopping over roots, fallen trees, and clumps of rocks. Ten seconds into the run, I’m forced to stop completely.

  Head in hands, I lean against a tree, teeth clenched. It’s all I can do to not scream in frustration.

  I flinch back when a hand touches my shoulder. When I reel around to declare “I’m fine,” I’m expecting to see Shua and his always-caring eyes. Instead I find Plistim and his caring
eyes, which only enrages me further.

  “I can give you something for the pain,” he says.

  “We don’t have time to brew a tea,” I grumble. During the winter, when fires are allowed, tea can be quickly brewed over a flame. While the Modernists could enjoy hot tea all year round, the rest of us had to make sun tea, or cold tea, which takes a long time and lacks the healing properties of hot tea.

  “Not tea,” he says, digging into his backpack. His hand emerges clutching something brown and shiny. He notes my confused look and says, “We found them in the library basement.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bottle,” he says. “It’s glass.”

  I think back to the missing windows in Boston. “Glass was brown?”

  He shakes his head. “Normally it was clear, but it could be any color. Our ancestors once had enormous images, which they called art, made entirely from colored glass. And when the sun shone through it…” He smiles, eyes drifting like he can see what he’s talking about. With a shake of his head, he returns. “But it’s not the glass bottle that’s important. It’s what’s inside.”

  Plistim pulls a wooden cork from the bottle that was clearly not part of the original design. He places the open end against his finger and shakes it back and forth. Then he rubs his dampened digit against the back of my neck.

  I grimace and pull away, but he persists, saying, “It will help the pain, which will keep you from slowing us down.”

  Anger swells—not because he’s insulted me, but because he’s right. If he can help the pain, I need to let him.

  He repeats the process of wetting his finger and then rubbing the liquid into my skin. When he moves to my temples, the back of my neck begins to burn. I’m about to mention it when a strong scent of mint strikes my nose. I grasp his wrist, stopping him from applying more. “What is that?”

  “Peppermint oil,” he says.

  “Everything in the forest will be able to smell me.”