The Divide Read online

  Then he speaks, just a single word.

  “Plistim.”

  He now has my undivided attention. I stop feeling the curved needle sliding through my skin. I stop smelling the Mary’s Leaf.

  “He’s been found,” he says. “Salem, too. Forty Modernists, some of them known to us, some of them not. But all of them together.”

  There are layers of information in his simple words. Found, not killed. The Modernists operate in small cells, recruiting teenagers when they first venture into the forest, regaling them with stories of times long past and showing them trinkets that have survived the ages—like my knife, but far more unique. That they are together, in a group forty strong, means they are plotting something. It also means that action will be taken against them. A war party will be sent, and if Salem is with the Modernists, there will be no capturing or torturing. It will simply be a slaughter. But it will not be quick. Wounds will be designed for maximum pain, drawing out the end so that those who witness it will pass the story on, deterring generations of young people from the Modernists’ path.

  A prick of pain draws my eyes downward. Grace’s wrinkled hands are shaking, but not from age. She’s nervous. Rushing to finish before… “They’re nearby,” I say. “At the Divide.”

  My father shakes his head, slow, either buying Grace time to finish or because of the calming smoke curling from his nose, up and around his head.

  “In Essex?”

  His head continues to shake. I should have let him continue. He would have told me by now. But this is my son we are talking about, and while my family, and our tribe, might have disowned him, he is my life. He is the boy I failed to raise right, whose curiosity dug in and never let go. I should have seen myself mirrored in him, should have spent more time teaching him the law. I could have prevented his seduction.

  “What will you do?” my father asks. “If you find him first?”

  He knows me too well.

  “I will give him the chance to renounce his ways and leave with me. To the North. Teach him to live off the land, and the importance of the Prime Law.”

  “You forget, Plistim was an elder. There is nothing of the law, and the time before, that you could teach your son that he does not already know.”

  “Then he will have to teach me.”

  My father smiles. “It will be a lonely life for both of you.”

  “No more than now.”

  My father dips his head. “Should you embark on this fool’s errand, I will likely pass before, and if, you ever return, which I would not recommend.”

  The true reason for his delay becomes clear. When he relays my son’s location, and I leave my father’s hut, it will be the last time he sees me.

  Grace ties a bandage around my leg, cinches it tight, and gives it a pat. “She’s ready.”

  My father leans forward on his knees, reaching for me. I lean forward to meet him. His weathered hand on the back of my neck draws me closer until our foreheads are touching. “You are my most dear and cherished love,” he says, and I nearly protest, because Grace is here with me, and I know what she means to him. But her hand on my back, rubbing slow circles, silences me. “Your mind is crisp. Your body hard. And your heart is pure. The Prime Law guides you in all things.”

  The words he is speaking to me are profound, not just because they are the final words of a father to a daughter, but because they mirror the words spoken from one elder to another at the time of transition. They are the same words spoken to Micha when he ascended into my father’s position.

  “I am sorry about the man your husband, our elder, turned out to be, but I am proud of the woman you became.”

  His words bring tears to my eyes and drill home that this is the last time I will see him.

  My father’s voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Be wary of the man to whom you are still wed. As I have known from the moment I first laid eyes on your son, Micha also knows he is not the father. His respect for me is the only reason you yet live, and that respect has been waning of late. Should he see you in the wild…”

  My stomach clenches, not out of fear of my husband, but that the truth has been known, by my father of all people, all this time.

  He gives my neck a pat. “You are not the only one with secrets.” His free hand slides around my back. I feel his fingers interlock with Grace’s, and I can’t help but huff a laugh.

  “I had hoped,” I say, pausing to take a slow breath, preparing to say my goodbyes to them both, but then my father utters a single word, guaranteeing that I will never speak the words.

  “Suffolk.”

  The small county is the only visible land south of Essex, separated by the great outflowing Karls River, once crossable, now miles wide and untold fathoms deep, part of it draining into the ocean, the rest roaring from a small fork into the Divide. It is unreachable, forbidden, and the only place in the known world where the great structures of the past still stand, their skeletal frames visible at sunset.

  “They have ventured into the old city,” he adds.

  I push myself up, testing my legs. The expertly sewn wounds remain sealed. “How can we possibly know this? It is beyond our reach.”

  “A traitor in their midst. One who saw the error in what they plan to do. I believe he was one of Salem’s friends.”

  “Where is he? I would have words with him.”

  “You know where he is,” my father says.

  Dead, I think. Tortured first, every secret expunged, and then slain.

  “When did my husband set out?” I ask.

  “This morning.” My father points to the right of the entrance. “For you.”

  There is a fresh pack tied to a bed roll, no doubt full of food, water, and medical supplies. A spear is strapped on either side, their metal tips gleaming and sharp. And on the back, my father’s ancient machete, a staple of my childhood, unused for decades.

  I pick up the pack and slip it over my shoulders. This, along with the knife at my waist, is everything I will need, short of a way to cross the Karls River.

  “I love you both,” I say, looking them in the eyes, and then I slip out of the hut, beginning my journey south, to Suffolk county, where the city of Boston once stood.

  I make it three steps down the hill before my father stops me. “Vee.”

  He stands framed by the small hut, Grace by his side. “If Salem does not agree to join you…”

  My father is seeking assurance, to know he was right to tell me.

  And I have no trouble giving it to him. “If Salem denies what I offer…I will kill him.”

  5

  The journey to Suffolk is dangerous, but not because of the terrain. While the forest floor is rarely level, the hill atop which my father has made his home is more than twice the height of anything between the village and the coast. The forest is dense in places, but the machete makes short work of any plants barring my path. The number of times I am forced to employ the blade reveals my path is the one less followed. A venture to the south of Essex is normally made by traveling east to the coast, and then south along the shore. It is a circuitous route, but avoids traveling along the Divide. While the people of Essex do not fear proximity to the vast gorge, traveling along its unexplored edge is considered foolish. It’s also a direct, southeasterly route that will shave a day from the journey and put me ahead of Micha and his war party.

  I’ve seen no evidence of my husband or his men. They would do their best to mask their presence, as we all do, but fifty plus unwashed men, eating, drinking, pissing, and shitting, are easy to track by smell alone. If I can maintain my pace, I should beat them to Suffolk and have plenty of time to…

  What?

  Find a way across the largest river in all of New Inglan? I’m a good swimmer, but even if my leg wasn’t hurt, crossing the Karls without being swept out to sea, or sucked into the Divide is impossible. People have tried. All have perished.

  But the Modernists found a way across. For forty people.
r />   The trees to my right thin out, revealing a sliver of light that draws my eyes.

  I stop like a deer that has caught a predator’s scent.

  But the open maw facing me is miles wide and infinitely longer. I’d prefer the jaws of a mountain lion.

  Distracted by thoughts of my son, my husband, and Suffolk, I wandered further west than intended. The Divide’s edge is just four hundred feet away. I could reach its edge, at a full sprint, in twenty seconds.

  I could look into the abyss.

  Part of me is tempted by the idea. It’s the same part of me that remembers cooked meat, who listened to my father’s stories, and who snuck off to be impregnated by a man who was not my husband. But I am not a fool, and I will not be responsible for humanity’s demise, simply to look at…

  What?

  No one knows.

  I understand the Modernist’s temptation. I have the same questions. About the world. About my place in it. About the point to it all. The Prime Law gives many answers about these things, but to those with the intelligence to see it, they are incomplete answers designed to dull interest in things beyond. The truth of the world is only meant for elders, who, in theory, are wise enough to retain the information without being corrupted by it. For the rest of us, a taste of knowledge leads to evil.

  That is why my father raised me with a firm understanding of the law, ensuring that the knowledge I had gained from him at an early age did not cause me to falter. Salem had no knowledge of the world before, and my efforts were more relaxed as a result. If I must slay my son, it will be because I first failed him.

  I walk along the tree line, ten feet back, listening to the rush of warm air rising from the Divide. Large hawks float in the warbling air, held aloft by great wings as they look for prey foolish enough to approach the precipice.

  “What do you see?” I ask the bird before it tilts its body and soars out over the chasm, headed to the far side, beyond the orange-hued horizon.

  The sun is falling, and as tempting as it is to walk through the night, even Micha and his men will stop to sleep. Better to rest and arrive with half a day to spare, than a full day and only half a mind.

  Knowing a close proximity to the Divide is the fastest route, I keep the thin tree line in sight as I limp further southeast, moving until the sun is neatly divided by the horizon. Then begins the search for a suitable tree. Without a companion to keep watch, I will need to sleep in the branches. Although many predators hunt during the day, they still stalk the darkness aside those that are strictly nocturnal. Some will even climb to find prey—but not without making a lot of noise.

  The oak tree I find growing along the tree line is ancient, hundreds of years old. Its long, sweeping branches are full of large green leaves that will keep me hidden. A quick run, and a push off the trunk, sends me high enough to catch the lowest branch. My leg aches from the effort, but I have no trouble hoisting myself up. As comfortable in the trees as I am on the ground, I head upward until I find a suitable crisscrossing of branches to support me. After unfurling and securing my bed roll, and attaching my pack to a branch, I have a small meal of dried meat and berries. Fed, but not completely satiated, the setting sun’s orange light draws my eyes west. Cracks in the foliage shimmer with a warmth that makes me feel alive.

  I stand and walk along the branch while holding on to a second. Weight flexes the limb downward, opening a passage through which I can see the setting sun, and the Divide it frames.

  A hiccup of surprise escapes my mouth.

  I’m forty feet up and now able to see the far side. I’ve never seen it this close before, and never framed by the setting sun. What looks like a silhouetted tree line is backlit by a wash of orange clouds at the horizon. Orange becomes red, and directly overhead, red becomes purple.

  “It is beautiful,” I say, intending the message for a son who cannot hear me. “I understand why you want to go there…”

  And then I’m reminded why such a thing is impossible.

  A shadow, projected upward by the setting sun, crawls along the sky, stretched out to impossible heights, bubbling over low-lying fluffy clouds, masking its identity.

  The Golyat.

  The hairs on my arms rise up in unison, as though pleading for mercy.

  I’m gripped by a horror that’s been instilled in me since birth, but the quiet voice of curiosity is never far behind.

  “What are you?” I whisper.

  A fast moving cloud, low to the ground, cuts the shadow in half. When it leaves, the shadow has shrunk.

  For a moment, I think this is because the sun’s angle has changed, but the further the sun sets, the longer the shadows get.

  A smooth patch of wispy clouds becomes the shadow’s canvas, and at that exact moment, the creature stands and reveals its true form.

  I stumble back, losing my footing and nearly my grip. The sudden fall, and the rush of adrenaline that comes with it, clears my mind enough to return some sense of self-preservation. I climb atop the branch once more, and with shaking limbs, I find my way to the bed roll. My eyes are no longer drawn to the light, or to the shadow still moving about in it.

  But I can still see its distinct shape, its human-like form as recognizable as my own shadow. Arms, legs, a smooth head.

  But it’s not human.

  It can’t be.

  It’s far too big.

  While the measurements are not precise, both ends of the estimated size scale are daunting. At the low end, the Golyat stands seventy-five feet tall. At the high end, two hundred feet tall. Wise men and elders have attempted to calculate the exact height for generations, but the number is always changing. Most believe the creature’s height to be somewhere in the middle.

  No matter the size, human beings would be as grasshoppers in its sight.

  And likely a food source.

  The Golyat is real. Of that there is no doubt. And that is why any serious breach of the Prime Law cannot be tolerated. It is why those whose actions threaten to expose our presence to the monster must receive swift and harsh consequences.

  And why I will either whisk my son away to the wildlands of Brunswick, or put my knife through his heart.

  The idea of killing my son makes me ill, but the knowledge that his actions could lead to horrors beyond imagining makes it necessary. And while it is not required for mothers to kill errant sons, in this case, it will be merciful. While Micha would draw out the boy’s killing, especially if he knows Salem is not his son, I will make his death quick.

  The same cannot be said if I manage to get ahold of Plistim. The man is a warrior, hardened by a harsh land, but as a shepherd, I have faced far worse than any one man.

  Sleep is impossible.

  My thoughts are torn to shreds by combating worries. I lay still for several hours, and then give up. I gather my gear, leave the tree’s safety, and set out through the night. Better to be a day early with half a brain than half a day early with half a brain.

  I can sleep tomorrow night, I decide, skirting the forest’s edge, where predators are less likely to lurk. Through the break in the trees I look up at the lunar ring, arching its way across the horizon. It’s a pale rainbow of dust, all that remains of what was once called the moon. The ring is visible during the day, as a thin, white line, but it’s spectacular at night.

  It does little to soothe my racing thoughts. They carry me through the night and the following day, at the end of which I sleep—only to dream of the Golyat sitting atop my father’s hill, Plistim in one giant hand, Salem in the other, all three of them laughing as I thrash and drown in a puddle.

  Despite a solid night’s sleep, the third day of travel finds me weary. I push onward, determined to outpace Micha, but my dreams have stolen all hope of saving Salem. As the sun begins to set on the third day, I realize my progress has been far slower than planned.

  Defeated and bladder full, I stop to relieve myself. Pants down, squatted down where I stood, I listen to the steady stream of urine, s
tudying its odor for any sign of illness. When my task is complete, the sound of rushing liquid continues, but distant, and far more vast than I can manage.

  I reach the forest’s edge at a run, nearly spilling out past the tree line, which would have been disastrous. The Divide is just twenty feet away. To the right, it stretches northwest to the horizon. To the left, a short, fast moving branch of the Karls River roars into the abyss. Beyond the waterfall is the rest of the Karls River, racing eastward, toward the sea and Suffolk.

  And my son.

  With no regard for the coming night, I follow the river east, leaving the Divide behind, and racing toward what I hope will be my son’s salvation, but what I am certain will be his death.

  And probably mine.

  6

  I smell them before I see them, their mix of scents spoiling the fragrant forest air, made sweeter by the roiling river. Micha’s men are congregated by the water, debating in groups, no doubt wondering how to cross. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and don’t really care. I’m too late. Micha and his men either traveled through the night, or took a less circuitous route than I believed. I wasn’t sure how to cross the Karls before, but now…with the narrowest stretch of river occupied…it’s a hopeless endeavor.

  I shouldn’t have stopped to sleep last night, I think, but I also know it’s a foolish thought. After the previous day’s journey, and my long search along the riverbank as the sun fell to the horizon, I was exhausted. And searching through the night was impossible. I rose with the sun’s return and searched another hour before catching my first whiff of company.

  Hidden high in a tree, I look up from the men, following the fast moving and very deep waters. The churning river flows into the ocean, glimmering in the morning sun, just a mile to the east. But this isn’t what holds my interest. Near the horizon to the south is the island of Suffolk, the remains of its once towering structures point skyward.