~ MACEL ~

Bess kissed the leaves with the gentle rainfall of her blood. She’d pricked her finger on a sharp thorn lurking beneath the camouflage of a dew-drenched leaf; rivulets of scarlet formed on her skin and pattered onto the greens and yellows of the vegetable floor. It was a trail of breadcrumbs unlike any other.

There was a calmness to the way she walked—an assurance that the stars themselves would fall into place for her. She didn’t care that she was bleeding. If she even felt the cut, she never let on. She just continued on.

Flossie Mayborn had grazed her leg once, chasing one of Macel’s friends on the schoolyard. Like Bess, she didn’t seem to register any pain at all. That was until freckle-faced Eseld Morgan, who always clung tightly to Flossie for dear life, pointed out the blood trickling down her leg. Then she cried.

The difference between Flossie Mayborn then and Bessily Edwards now was more than a decade. Flossie had been just a child, and of an age where most children cry at the sight of their own blood. Macel couldn’t judge her for that. He hadn’t outgrown his own tears until adolescence, after all. But today, Bess didn’t look like she’d ever shed a tear, even as a squalling infant.

She had, of course. He’d seen it. But that was the Bess of the night, the one who heard voices and saw strange pictures. That Bess had vanished.

She’d been whistling since Macel had met her at the stables. Most of the tunes were slow dirges, unfamiliar to him. On occasion he’d recognise one. ‘Effie May’, for instance, or ‘Once More My Sweet’—the real melancholy stuff. “They’re the ones I know,” she’d explained, when he asked her why she always went for the sad songs. “The sad ones are the best.”

The lake beckoned today. Bess promised she wasn’t planning to spend another day searching for idols in the water. She just wanted time away from the confines of Plateau Watch. It would be wasted time without Macel beside her, she’d told him. She’d giggled girlishly as she said that, nestling her head on his chest and looking at him with those big eyes of hers. How could he have denied her?

Last night at the kindling shed, the others had found it funny when he explained where he was going. Something about spending the day in the company of Plateau Watch’s most beautiful maiden seemed to really tickle the sensibilities of Sam Preston and Matt Grogan and all the others who were incapable of saying more than a sentence or two to any woman they had an interest in.

“If that’s the only way you can get a girl wet, I pity you,” Sam had said. “I just need to look her in the eye.”

Delie Rice stood over them with arms folded. “You’ve looked me in the eye before, and it didn’t do a thing,” she said.

“That’s not the impression I got the other night,” Sam had retorted.

Delie had left the room at a fair pace, and Sam had followed behind her, neither to return for the rest of the night. It had been left to Matt Grogan to furnish Macel with exactly the sort of encouragement he wanted the day before he planned to ask Bess out properly. “Are you sure you’re not a serial killer? If I was going to murder a bird, I’d probably take her to the lake. Tie something heavy to her leg and she’ll sink right to the bottom. Nobody’d ever find her.”

He did have a point, twisted as it was. If Macel wanted to dispose of Bess, it would be easy to do. She was small, with a lean musculature, and he wouldn’t need much strength to overpower her. He couldn’t imagine why he’d want to kill her. But he wasn’t the only person on Essegena. Perhaps someone in the colony was a killer. Perhaps Bartley and Cailie and Warner were bloating at the bottom of the lake.

Thanks to Matt’s advice, Macel had slept uneasily, his dreams filled with sadistic killers and decaying bodies. When he awoke, he felt far from rested.

Delie was alone at the end of the dining room’s long table, making slow work of two sausages on a plate. When she saw Macel, she looked down at her food.

“Sam not about?” he asked, sitting across from her. Delie pointed across the room; Sam was huddled around one of the smaller tables, the ones fit for six, talking raucously with Greg Fentiman and Eric Scobie. Macel held onto his plate. “Are you alright?”

Delie looked at him, forced an exaggerated smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just needed a break.”

“Do you want me to go away?”

Delie cocked her head to the side. “If you would. Oh, and Macel? If you don’t treat Bessily like she deserves today, I will hurt you.”

He scooted across the room to Sam’s table, and found a free seat there.

“There he is,” said Fentiman, as Macel sat down.

“You’re not gonna come back all sappy, are you?” Scobie asked, shovelling a spoonful of oats into his mouth.

“I’m spending the day with a pretty girl,” said Macel. “I don’t see how that’s deserving of mockery.”

“It’s cause you haven’t slept with her yet,” said Sam, as though it was the most obvious thing. “I shag Hortense every time I see her. You’ve been with Bessily every day for four months and you’ve not even kissed.”

Fentiman snickered. “I bet there’s something fucky about her. She’s probably a secret serial killer or something.”

“A woman’s a woman, killer or not,” Sam said, with a shrug.

“Yeah, but you wanna have a go on one knowing what she might do to you if you don’t perform?” Fentiman took a swig of his vilsa juice.

“Bessily isn’t a serial killer,” said Macel.

“No, but she’s a weird one,” Scobie said. “Happy one day and weepy the next. And she acts like she knows stuff. She’s probably a Foresleeper or some crap.”

Fentiman coughed up his juice. “No way is she a Foresleeper. I thought they were all dead.”

“They keep on coming back to life,” said Scobie. “Here, Macel, if she does turn out to be a Foresleeper you can use my knife to pull her guts out.”

“A knife’s too kind for a Foresleeper,” Fentiman spat. “Fire’ll do the job just fine.”

Macel left his breakfast unfinished. It wasn’t worth eating if he had to listen to more threats on Bessily’s life. In any case, he thought back to Matt Grogan’s unwanted advice and his appetite faded away.

Bess was waiting in her usual place against the fence. She waved at Macel when she saw him, and began to fix her hair. He wasn’t sure why she felt the need to. It was perfect as it was.

“I can’t get enough of this heat,” she said. “I hope the weather holds.” She’d dressed to make the most of it. Her clothes today were functional but sparse, light fabrics that covered enough to keep her modesty while leaving little to the imagination. He found his attention drifting to her breasts as she walked; every time he caught himself he felt dirty, lecherous, and he forced himself to either look at her face or not look at her at all.

But looking at her face was worse, in a way. Her pallor had not subsided, even three weeks later. Maybe it had drained her to come clean to him. Maybe the ghost light had frightened her. Whichever, she’d been less chipper since then. Oh, she wore the mask. She laughed at every joke, smiled at every compliment, did everything that was expected of a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, and she did it with an outward grace that made her look regal. If Macel didn’t look deeper, he could believe that she was happy.

A good look at her face belied the shadow underneath. Deep down she was cold.

That was probably why she’d stopped talking. Every word she said was a deflection. She’d go through the usual niceties, the fillers said simply to pass the time. Sometimes she’d even find time for a cynical joke. As soon as somebody asked her something real, she’d retreat, back behind her armour of skin and powder.

She’d wanted to take a slightly longer route to the lake; the cleft carved at the foot of the Easterwood by that rushing stream would take them there via places unknown, so she thought. They’d have to go around the hills that Plateau Watch was built upon, and circle around the great hill that the Easterwood grew on, but they’d come to the water eventually. The stream had to rush to somewhere. And if they didn’t, at least they’d get to see some places that nobody else had ever seen. Macel had no objections to the idea.

If anything, it allowed him to get thoroughly lost in his thoughts. Essegena looked a lot like home, at times. He could almost imagine that he wasn’t on the far side of the universe at all—that he’d merely crested the Tumper’s Ridge and now he was on the other side of the Merrowain Heights. He scratched at the scar on his hand. It had been a sunny day like this when he’d got it.

They called the boy Raphe. Macel wasn’t sure if it was really his name, but he answered to it—in his sullen manner, and if he thought he might get an extra helping of that sour porridge. Raphe was what Tanis called a ‘ward of the village’. Neither Tanis nor Macel was privy to the politics that had led to his arrival—they only knew the arrangement as it was. Raphe was to be treated as any other boy in the village. He’d learn the lessons, do the rituals, find a wife when the time came. But under no circumstance was he to go beyond the walls.

It was a brilliant arrangement, in truth. The Donea children had jumped at the opportunity to be Raphe’s companions. It meant being alone with each other and the boy, able to plan their escape from the village without the adults hearing. Tanis was going to become a writer.

And then she fell for Raphe the ward. Macel never knew what she saw in him—his brown curls were messy, his face lop-sided, and his front teeth were chipped. But Tanis spent more and more time alone with Raphe. She grew angry at Macel for intruding, when Macel brought Raphe’s porridge on a silver tray.

He should have told Tanis her plan was stupid. She was his big sister, six years older, and he’d always just figured she knew things. It wasn’t until afterwards that he realised how little Tanis knew. She’d been making it up as she went along. But she thought to elope, to run away with Raphe and marry him somewhere far away. “I’ll write to you, once we’re settled down,” she told Macel, “and then you can come and be with us.” Her plan was simple. On the eve of the Daughter’s Day, when all the adults were preparing for the festival, Macel would help Raphe out of the tower that was his home, and beyond to the Heights themselves. Tanis would be waiting for them up on the hills.

The plan would have worked, too, had it not been for Corrin Fleck. The twat-in-chief wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He’d been lurking at Mardy Handatt’s croft, spooking Mardy’s chickens—and he’d chanced to see Macel on the road out of town, and Raphe too. Corrin Fleck hadn’t said a word as they walked by. Macel led Raphe to the meeting point, then went home to get a good night’s sleep.

He’d awoken to half a dozen town guards standing over his bed, and his grandfather holding Tanis in a headlock. “This girl would have brought dishonour to us,” grandfather thundered. “And you too.”

“Fleck told us what you did,” one of the guards had grunted. “Now you’re to bring him back.” Grandfather handed Macel a gun, a wooden musket—and no more words were said. Tanis had wept openly as Macel left the house, and got a tighter chokehold for her efforts.

Macel had found Raphe, eventually. The poor boy was still wandering around the narrow clearing where Macel had left him, calling Tanis’ name. He soured when he saw Macel approaching with a gun in his hand. “You lied to me.” Raphe’s accent was thick, but he spoke clearly enough. “You betrayed me.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

And that wasn’t the case at all. Macel raised his hands, to try to say “no, not me”. He only had the gun because grandfather had insisted. And it was only because Corrin Fleck had seen them. He wanted to help Raphe—he’d always wanted to help.

But Raphe had seen the gun, and nothing more. Like a rabid animal, he attacked, lunged for Macel. The gun was thrown aside, lost in the undergrowth. Macel stumbled on a rabbit-hole as he backed away, and fell. Raphe was upon him. He scratched at Macel, carved deep gouges into Macel’s arm, and the more Macel tried to fight him off the angrier Raphe became. The pain had been unbearable.

Then there’d been a shot. Macel couldn’t hear a thing for ten minutes. He could see, though. He saw Raphe’s arm explode in a splatter of blood, saw Corrin Fleck wrestle him to the ground. Raphe died that day.

By the time they returned to Cadéist, Tanis had been cast out. Macel was gone within the week. How could he stay? He was the coward, the weak boy who’d let an unarmed child tear his arm apart. And he was the boy whose sister was a traitor and a whore. Even Flossie would turn her nose up at him in the streets.

He shook his head. He wasn’t the same boy who’d left to make ends meet in Pattinsdale. Why live in the past? This was the future. It was a much better place to live.

The route was slow moving. The terrain wasn’t hard, for the most part, but it was a mystery. The last thing they wanted to do was stumble upon a rabbit hole or some uneven ground, turn an ankle, and have to be carried back. And if they overshot, went too far before swinging west towards the lake, who was to say where they might end up. The further they wandered the sparser the maps—and they wouldn’t be the first to go missing.

Eventually, the narrow pass widened, the left-hand hill peeling away. The way here was blocked by a small cliff, perhaps seven feet high. All those months ago it had served as an obstacle to Macel as he passed with Tema. He could just about grip the top with his fingers if he jumped, and from there shimmy up. Bess, the poor thing, couldn’t get close. She had a few unsuccessful leaps, and Macel watched her all the while. “Here,” he said, offering a hand, “let me pull you up.”

“I can do it myself,” she said, indignant.

Five minutes later, she relented, and he pulled her up. They sat at the top of the rocks to recover. Bess looked ahead, at where they were next bound. Macel’s eyes never left her. Even panting and sweating, red-faced, her legs splayed out carelessly, she was a beauty. He wanted her. If she’d only give the word...

She caught his eye and smiled. Then she looked away again. That was the worst pain.

Further ahead, the trees became more numerous, and their leaves greener. The ground here was littered with the debris of dead needles.

In places, animals roamed, chestnut-furred mettysnatchers who scurried from one tree to another. They were placid, quite plainly unused to human contact. Sometimes they’d sit there perfectly happily while Bess walked up to stroke them. Macel warned her away. “Who knows what diseases they’re carrying,” he said. “The hospital’s already closed up, so it’s best not to risk it.” She brushed him off, but he noticed that she stayed away from the critters from then on.

Some of the bushes that grew here sprouted fruits, gleaming berries of red and amber. They looked so good. It would be the easiest thing in the world to pluck one from its branch and take a bite or two. But to do that would be to hold a crapshoot between life and death.

Bess pulled one of the big amber fruits off, rolled it between her fingers. “Don’t eat it,” Macel said. “It could be toxic.”

She smiled at him. “You’re sweet, worrying about me. I’m not an idiot, you know—not all the time, anyway. Ella’s a biologist, she can examine it.”

“I’m sure she’s got nothing more important to do than hold random fruits under a microscope.”

“What could be more important than looking at fruit? We need to know what’s safe to eat, surely.” Bess threw the fruit up high above her head, then held her hands open to catch it. It bounced awkwardly, and she barely kept hold of it, clutching it to her chest. She shot Macel a devilish look. “Or if you prefer, we could share it between us, right here and now. See who dies first.”

“Fine. Take it with you.”

Bess tucked the fruit away in her little leather purse, hidden today in the folds of a linen jacket. She was heading towards a huge promontory rising out of the ground a ways north, topped by trees which cut the sky. The view from up there would be something special. That would be the place, Macel decided. There was no point making a big thing of it, just a casual question would do. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” or something equally unimpressive. What would change? He’d want to kiss her, but sometimes he wanted to do that now.

A sudden sinking cooled his feelings. What if Fentiman wasn’t the only person who’d want Bess dead? She might be ignorant to ill feelings towards her, but Macel wasn’t. He’d take on her fears. He rubbed at his scar again.

“You’ve been doing that a lot today,” said Bess. “I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

“It doesn’t, normally,” said Macel.

“Delie told me you got it wrestling a grimalkin.”

Macel snorted. “I’m not that foolish. It was a man. Well, a boy.” And just like that, he was telling Bess the story of Raphe the ward. Every gory detail.

“What happened to Raphe, in the end? Did the gunshot kill him?”

Macel closed his eyes and shook his head. “They took him back to the village and tried him for a turncoat. He was guilty, of course. As a ward he was bound to the town, and yet he’d left. He went to the block.”

Bess had a blank look on her face. “The block?”

“They took his head off,” said Macel. “Least that’s what I assume. I never stayed to find out.”

“They what? They killed him? I thought that only happened in the stories.”

Macel shook his head. “Execution’s not an uncommon sentence. Far from it. This is a savage universe, Bess.”

She’d gone pale. “Not Lakestable. Lakestable’s peaceful.”

“It’s one of a kind then,” he muttered, casting an uneasy glance east. There, where the trees grew thicker still, angry clouds were massing in steel grey formations. “I don’t like the look of that sky. Let’s head back. We’ll get caught in the rain if we’re not careful.”

Bess pouted, but she didn’t resist. “I preferred it here when it wasn’t raining,” she said. “I wish it could be summer all the time.”

They stood for a while, taking stock of their surroundings. Sooner or later, no matter which direction they looked, it eventually became hills—splendid things, behemoths crested with trees that speared the sky, rising high enough to make even a giant feel insignificant. This was a separate valley, far smaller than the Eia valley but just as lovely. From here no civilisation could be seen. They could pretend they were the only ones.

“Just think,” said Bess. “The whole planet’s like this. A thousand little paradises. You could slip away and start off on your own somewhere, and no-one might ever find you.”

“That would be a lonely life.”

“That’s why you don’t go alone.” She cooed, lost in a dream. “Haven’t you pictured it? You and me, perhaps a child or two, growing old together on our very own frontier...” Bess trailed off. Her face was crimson.

“I had no idea you saw me that way,” said Macel.

She stammered a half-laugh. “I don’t. I mean... it’s just a hypothetical. You were just an example.”

“Just an example? I’m flattered.”

Bess batted him away. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, ruffling her hair to reassure her. The action seemed to bemuse her.

“What are you doing?”

“Reassuring you.” As he said it, he realised how strange it sounded. She didn’t look reassured, and he was hard pressed to blame her. If someone had started ruffling his hair, he’d have been more than a little disconcerted.

She pushed his arm away. “Please don’t,” she said.

“Sorry. That was a silly thing to do.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It was nice. Just... too long. It got awkward after a while.”

They locked eyes then, and he could see his whole life in hers. They were deep pools, and from them seemed to spring a trove of delights. He remembered the best piece of advice his father had ever given him. “You’ll know when it’s time. If you’re not sure, it’s not right.” And now he knew. It seemed so obvious. Who cared what she did or did not see in her dreams? He wanted her when she was awake.

Their lips met for an eternity. What do I do now? The kiss was an alien move to him; he’d assumed it would come naturally, that instinct would take over and his mouth would guide him. Instinct told him nothing. So instead he closed his eyes.

It was only a blink. He opened them to find Bess had released him. She was wide-eyed, blinking over and over as though she might wake herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s fine.” This time, he reassured her with only a smile. “It was nice.”

“I wanted my first to be special.”

“It was special. You were there. That in itself makes it special.” He jerked his head towards the way home. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, and he turned to head back. But almost as soon as he took his first step, he felt her hand on his arm. “Wait.”

“What?”

“This way.” And suddenly she was walking down the incline east, towards the thick trees and the fury.

“Bess, no. Come on, you’ll get soaked, you’ll catch a chill. We can come back another day—a drier day.”

But she shook her head. “It has to be now.

“What’s the matter with you? You were fine to head back just now. All of a sudden you’ve changed your mind.”

She pointed at the ground. There were trample-marks in the dead vegetation, a trail which seemed to stretch on into the fledgling forest. Macel had come this way before, following Tema’s lead. This was where they found Jem. Nothing had been trampled then. It was an animal, most likely, though a bigger one than the skittering things they’d seen before.

He shook his head. “I’m not chasing after an animal, not when we don’t know what it might be.”

“I’ll go on my own then.”

He followed her despite his better instincts. “You’re stubborn,” he said. “It’ll get you killed one day.”

“Being stubborn’s what got me here in the first place.”

The trees grew more numerous at an imperceptible rate as they passed through; Macel became suddenly aware that, in all directions, he could see nothing beyond them. The trunks seemed to thicken in tandem. Higher up, in the valley, they’d been stick-thin, some of them little more than saplings. Here in the heartland, the trunks were stout and gnarled, and the branches twisted and bent like macabre contortionists.

Too, everything became steadily darker. The burgeoning rainclouds had drifted overhead, and subdued the day’s light. What rain there was barely reached them, though, crashing onto the canopy leaves with the roar of stampeding hooves but scarcely filtering through. Macel held his sweatshirt over his head regardless. It would only take a second for the gentle trickle to become a torrent.

Bess seemed altogether unfazed by the rain. She wasn’t dressed for it. Hers were summer clothes, for the summer day they’d enjoyed as little as an hour ago. The water made them sag heavy as the fabric stuck fast to her. She walked on with rigid determination, not even raising a hand to wipe away the droplet which had traced its path down her brow, coming to rest at the edge of her nose.

It was colder as well, he noticed. When had the temperature dropped? He wasn’t sure, but he was shivering. The skin on his hands was a bright pink. Winter had arrived in an instant.

In front of him, Bess stopped. She was shivering too, he could see. She was trying not to let it show, holding herself still, but it always escaped in the form of a shudder that rocked her whole body. Every breath she took was visible.

It shouldn’t have been this cold.

Bess knew it too. “Something’s not right here.” Her voice was low and deep.

“We should have headed back when I said.”

“No.” Even now, she was stubborn. “We needed to come here. I saw him in a dream.”

Of course. She was obsessed with her dreams. Best to indulge her, as long as she wasn’t hurting anybody. But this was borderline. We’ll stay, he decided, as long as it doesn’t get any worse. If there was any hint of lightning, they’d be going straight back to the Watch—even if that meant him picking her up and carrying her.

“He’s here,” she said, in a screeched whisper. “He’s close.”

“Who’s close? Who are you talking about?”

“The soldier Bartley. The one who disappeared.”

At once he soured. “Stop it now. This has gone far enough.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her back along the trail. She dug her heels in; he was stronger, so as he dragged her she cut a shallow trench in the trees’ litter.

“Let go of me, Macel.”

“No. I’ll play along with the ‘Foresleeper’ stuff when it’s fun, but this is too far. Robert Bartley is a human being, a friend of mine even. He’s not some prop for you to use in your delusional games.”

Somehow she slipped free from his grip. Her hand loose, she struck him with a firm slap across the face. “You said you believed me. You said you respected me. What happened to that?”

“I said I don’t think you’re a demon,” he said. “And I still don’t. I think you’re an immature child, too busy playing make-believe to grow up. We’re going home. Now. And next time you should be less disrespectful.”

“You’re not my father.” She was on the verge of yelling. Her top lip was quivering uncontrollably. “In fact, you’re not anything to me. Bugger off back if you want to. Thanks for teaching me not to waste my time with other people.”

He watched her, and she watched him, and for a time neither made any movement. Her cheeks were crimson, and her knuckles bright white outside clenched fists. And there was rain dropping onto her face from the trees above. Bright red rain.

“Bess...”

She folded her arms and turned pointedly away from him. Another scarlet rivulet dropped down, smearing her face as it snaked towards the ground.

“Bessily.”

She turned with a huff, and sighed in exasperation. “What?”

“There’s blood on your face.” At his direction, she rubbed her cheek with a finger. She looked at her fingertip, slick with the sky blood, and the fear was instantly palpable.

“It’s not mine,” she said.

“It came from up there.” He pointed to the trees above her, looking for himself as he did so. And at once he saw the source.

Corporal Bartley was there in the trees, suspended at least a dozen feet above them. His face was pale, his eyes unseeing. A branch from one of the trees was running through his stomach, like it had grown there. From the wound poured fresh, wet blood.

Bess screamed.