John Wyndham - The Chrysalids

‘What about his horse, Rosalind? Did that get away?’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know. I suppose he must have had one, but he was following our tracks on foot when I saw him.’

I thought it better to retrace our course and find out whether he had left a horse tethered anywhere along it. I went back half a mile, but found no horse, nor was there any trace of recent hoof-marks other than those of the great-horses. When I got back, Petra was awake and chattering to Rosalind.

The day wore on. Nothing more came to us from Michael or the rest. In spite of what had happened it seemed better to stay where we were than to move by daylight with the risk of being seen. So we waited.

Then, in the afternoon, something did come, suddenly.

It was not a thought-shape; it had no real form; it was sheer distress, like a cry of agony. Petra gasped, and threw herself whimpering into Rosalind’s arms. The impact was so sharp that it hurt. Rosalind and I stared at one another, wide-eyed. My hands shook. Yet the shock was so formless that we could not tell which of the others it came from.

Then there was a jumble of pain and shame, overridden with hopeless desolation, and, among it, characteristic glimpses of forms that we knew without doubt were Katherine’s. Rosalind put her hand on mine and held it tightly. We endured, while the sharpness dimmed, and the pressure ebbed away.

Presently came Sally, brokenly, in waves of love and sympathy to Katherine, then, in anguish, to the rest of us.

‘They’ve broken Katherine. They’ve broken her… Oh, Katherine, dear… you mustn’t blame her, any of you. Please, please don’t blame her. They’re torturing her. It might have been any of us. She’s all clouded now. She can’t hear us… Oh, Katherine, darling…’ Her thoughts dissolved into shapeless distress.

Then there was Michael, unsteadily at first, but hardening into as rigid a form as I had ever received:

‘It is war. Some day I’ll kill them for what they’ve done to Katherine.’

After that there was nothing for an hour or more. We did our rather unconvincing best to soothe and reassure Petra. She understood little of what had passed between us, but she had caught the intensity and that had been enough to frighten her.

Then there was Sally again; dully, miserably, forcing herself to it:

‘Katherine has admitted it; confessed. I have confirmed it. They would have forced me to it, too, in the end. I—’ she hesitated, wavering. ‘I couldn’t face it. Not the hot irons; not for nothing, when she had told them. I couldn’t… Forgive me, all of you… forgive us both…’ She broke off again.

Michael came in unsteadily, anxiously, too.

‘Sally, dear, of course we’re not blaming you — either of you. We understand. But we must know what you’ve told them. How much do they know?’

‘About thought-shapes — and David and Rosalind. They were nearly sure about them, but they wanted it confirmed.’

‘Petra, too?’

‘Yes… Oh, oh, oh…!’ There was an unshaped surge of remorse. ‘We had to — poor little Petra — but they knew, really. It was the only reason that David and Rosalind would have taken her with them. No lie would cover it.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. We’ve told them that there isn’t anyone else. I think they believe it. They are still asking questions. Trying to understand more about it. They want to know how we make thought-shapes, and what the range is. I’m telling them lies. Not more than five miles, I’m saying, and pretending it’s not at all easy to understand thought-shapes even that far away…. Katherine’s barely conscious. She can’t send to you. But they keep on asking us both questions, on and on…. If you could see what they’ve done to her…. Oh, Katherine, darling…. Her feet, Michael — oh, her poor, poor feet….’

Sally’s patterns clouded in anguish, and then faded away.

Nobody else came in. I think we were all too deeply hurt and shocked. Words have to be chosen, and then interpreted; but thought-shapes you feel, inside you….

The sun was low and we were beginning to pack up when Michael made contact again.

‘Listen to me,’ he told us. ‘They’re taking this very seriously indeed. They’re badly alarmed over us. Usually if a Deviation gets clear of a district they let him go. Nobody can settle anywhere without proofs of identity, or a very thorough examination by the local inspector, so he’s pretty well bound to end up in the Fringes, anyway. But what’s got them so agitated about us is that nothing shows. We’ve been living among them for nearly twenty years and they didn’t suspect it. We could pass for normal anywhere. So a proclamation has been posted describing the three of you and officially classifying you as deviants. That means that you are non-human and therefore not entitled to any of the rights or protections of human society. Anyone who assists you in any way is committing a criminal act; and anyone concealing knowledge of your whereabouts is also liable to punishment.

‘In effect, it makes you outlaws. Anyone may shoot you on sight without penalty. There is a small reward if your deaths are reported and confirmed; but there is a very much larger reward for you if you are taken alive.’

There was a pause while we took that in.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Rosalind. ‘If we were to promise to go away and stay away–?’

‘They’re afraid of us. They want to capture you and learn more about us — that’s why there’s the large reward. It isn’t just a question of the true image — though that’s the way they’re making it appear. What they’ve seen is that we could be a real danger to them. Imagine if there were a lot more of us than there are, able to think together and plan and co-ordinate without all their machinery of words and messages: we could outwit them all the time. They find that a very unpleasant thought; so we are to be stamped out before there can be any more of us. They see it as a matter of survival — and they may be right, you know.’

‘Are they going to kill Sally and Katherine?’

That was an incautious question which slipped from Rosalind. We waited for a response from either of the two girls. There was none. We could not tell what that meant; they might simply have closed their minds again, or be sleeping from exhaustion, or perhaps dead already…. Michael thought not.

‘There’s little reason for that when they have them safely in their hands: it would very likely raise a lot of ill-feeling. To declare a new-born baby as non-human on physical defects is one thing: but this is a lot more delicate. It isn’t going to be easy for people who have known them for years to accept the non-human verdict at all. If they were to be killed, it would make a lot of people feel uneasy and uncertain about the authorities — much the same way as a retrospective law does.’

‘But we can be killed quite safely?’ Rosalind commented, with some bitterness.

‘You aren’t already captives, and you aren’t among people who know you. To strangers you are just non-humans on the run.’

There was not much one could say to that. Michael asked:

‘Which way are you travelling tonight?’

‘Still south-west,’ I told him. ‘We had thought of trying to find some place to stop in Wild Country, but now that any hunter is licensed to shoot us, we shall have to go on into the Fringes, I think.’

‘That’d be best. If you can find a place to hide-up there for a bit we’ll see if we can’t fake your deaths. I’ll try to think of some way. Tomorrow I shall be with a search-party that’s going south-east. I’ll let you know what it’s doing. Meanwhile, if you run into anyone, make sure that you shoot first.’