Anne Bishop: The Voice

Tahnee wiped the tears off her face and gave me a long look. “What are we really going to be doing?”

“Escaping. We’re going back to Vision.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment I wondered if I had been wrong to tell her. Then the fire of hope filled her eyes.

“The three of us?” she asked.

I hesitated, and felt as if the world itself waited for my answer. “Four of us.”

At dinner that night, even Dariden was subdued, although he rallied once when he heard I was going over to Kobbi’s house with Tahnee.

“You shouldn’t be friends with the likes of her,” he told me, glancing at our father for approval of such a manly opinion.

“What happened to Kobbi could happen to anyone,” I said, helping myself to another spoonful of rice. Then I looked my brother in the eyes. “If I had ended up married to someone like Chayne, it could have happened to me.”

My father made a tongue-cluck sound of disapproval for my criticism of Chayne, but Dariden paled as he realized I knew what Chayne had been doing to Kobbi. And as he stared into my eyes, he understood that, with the least provocation, Tahnee and I would spread that information to every female in the village, and any standing Chayne had in our community would be crushed under the rumors that he drugged his young wife in order to do unnatural things in the marriage bed.

“You’re looking pale, Dariden,” I said, putting enough concern in my voice to draw Mother’s attention. “Perhaps you should stay in tonight.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Mother asked him.

Cornered, Dariden just stared at his plate. “Been working hard,” he mumbled. “Guess I should turn in early tonight.”

So I was free to leave the house, secure in the knowledge that Dariden and I wouldn’t cross paths tonight. Even if he retreated to his room, he wouldn’t be able to sneak out the window, because Mother always checked on us at regular intervals when we weren’t feeling well. Dariden had learned this the hard way as a boy when he had lied to Mother about not feeling well in order to sneak out with his friends, and had found our father waiting for him when he snuck back in.

I left the house with my travel bag and stopped just long enough to slip into our little barn and take a small bag of feed and an old round pan that could hold water. I didn’t have a water skin, and that was a worry. It turned out to be a foolish worry, because Tahnee had bought a water skin at the bazaar and hidden it under her other purchases.

We didn’t see many people on the way to Kobbi’s house, and those who saw us looked away when they noticed the bags of clothes and realized where we were going.

The woman who opened the door . . . Tahnee and I stood there, too numbed to speak. Our friend Kobbi was gone, and in that moment when my eyes met the crazed wildness in Kobrah’s, I knew that even if we got her away from Chayne and the village, we had lost her forever. But we would still try to save her.

“I was going to burn down the house,” Kobrah said, as if that were the most ordinary thing to say. “But it can wait until later. Maybe I should wait until Chayne is home and sound asleep. Yes. That would be better.”

She stepped aside to let us in. We slipped into the house and closed the door before daring to say anything.

“We’re leaving,” I said hurriedly. “We’re running away to Vision. You can come with us.”

She’ll destroy us, I thought as I waited for her answer. Chayne has burned out the goodness in her, and if she comes with us, she’ll destroy us.

But I didn’t take back the offer. I just waited for her answer.

“Yes,” she finally said, softly. “Yes.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

Leaving our bags by the door, we hurried after her. “We didn’t dare take any food from home . . .” I began.

“I have food,” Kobrah replied. She pulled out her market basket. “I boiled eggs this afternoon, after I got back from the Elders’ Hall. Chayne doesn’t like hard-boiled eggs. Maybe that’s why I made them.”

Her voice sounded dreamy—and insane. But she moved swiftly, storing the eggs, wrapping up the cheeses, taking all the fresh fruit.

Then Tahnee, in an effort to help, reached for a loaf of bread still cooling on the counter.

“No!” Kobrah snarled. “ That is for Chayne.”

Tahnee stepped away from the counter, white with fear. She looked at me, her thoughts clear on her face: Do we dare eat anything that comes from this house?

Kobrah smiled bitterly. “The rest of the food is safe.” She went into the bedroom, and we listened to her opening drawers and slamming them shut, followed by a cry of triumph and the rattle of coins in a tin box.

Kobrah was packed in no time, and even after we told her about having a cart, she refused to add anything to the small travel pack she used to carry when we spent the night at each other’s houses. After the second time we urged her to bring more clothes or at least a few sentimental trinkets, she said, “I want no reminders of this place.”

The hours crawled by until, finally, we had reached that in-between hour when all the family men were dutifully tucked in with their wives and children and the younger men were still at the drinking parlor or carousing elsewhere with friends.

We crept out of Kobrah’s house, lugging our traveling bags and other supplies, always watchful, always fearful of discovery. But something watched over us that night, because whenever we passed a house with a dog, the wind shifted to favor us and the dog, never catching our scent, remained quiet.

So we made it to the tree where we used to play and where, in many ways, this journey had begun seven years before on the day we had seen The Voice’s scars. Kobrah and Tahnee remained there with the bags while I went on to the Elders’ Hall, now carrying nothing more than the old pan, a water skin, and the small bag of feed. If caught, I could truthfully say I had felt sorry for the horse and had snuck out to give it some food and water.

But there were no lights shining in the hall except for a lamp in the caretaker’s room, and that provided me with just enough light to make my way to where the horse watched me.

“Easy, boy,” I whispered when he began making noises. He was hungry and thirsty, and I was holding what he wanted. He would be making a lot of noise soon if he didn’t get some.

Staying just out of reach and keeping one eye on the lighted window, just in case the caretaker looked out to see why the horse was fussing, I poured water into the pan, then held it out for the horse. He drank it down and looked for more, but I scooped out a double handful of feed and gave that to him next. Another pan of water and another handful of feed. Not much for a big horse, but all I could do for now. I put the water skin and bag of feed in the back of the cart, but I held on to the pan, afraid it would rattle and draw attention.

“Come on, boy,” I whispered as I untied the horse from the hitching rail. “Come on. You’re going to help all of us get to freedom.”

He came with me without noise or fuss, and when we were far enough away from the hall that the clip-clop of hooves and rattle of the cart wheels wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention, I began taking full breaths again.

We paused at the tree just long enough to haul the traveling bags and supplies into the cart and have Kobrah and Tahnee hide in the back. One person leading a horse and cart might go unremarked. All three of us out at this time of night with this particular horse and cart . . . Our luck held. We got to the back of The Voice’s house and got the cart positioned so the blank stone marker could be used as a step. Now the rest of the plan was up to me, and if I failed one of us, I failed all of us.