Moira Young - Raging Star

She stands, hands folded, eyes lowered.

Of course, says DeMalo. I’ll leave you alone. Sleep, he tells me. I’ll see you tonight.

Mercy sits on the bed. She takes me in her arms. Holds me. I’m sorry, she says. So sorry.

DeMalo sent out searchers. To find the best midwife in New Eden. The Tonton tracked her down by word of mouth. She was brought here in greatest hurry. She stays to this room, her own room, a sluice room an the kitchen. Wherever she is, a Tonton’s with her. None must speak to her but on matters of my care. It’s a fine house, one of several DeMalo moves between. Plain but comfortable.

She don’t know New Eden well. All she knows is we’re somewhere southwest. The house stands in grassland with views to nowhere. At the end of a long track from the road.

DeMalo went in the river to save me. I bin here five nights an five days. At first she feared I had no will to live. DeMalo ain’t hardly ever here. She got the idea there was trouble elsewhere an he was called away to deal with it. She wonders if our work got discovered. She fears fer our people.

Nero’s about. He comes an goes through the window. Mercy taught him to lift the latch. Tracker found his way here from the Lanes. He ain’t seen by day but he howls in the night.

My brother an sister lie in graves, side by side. DeMalo raised stone cairns above them.

That’s what she tells me. No more. Not yet. She don’t say the words agin. Pregnant. Miscarried. She don’t ask me no questions.

I don’t speak.

I don’t cry.

I’m white.

I’m bones.

Stripped bare.

I wake. It’s dark. There’s a fire in the hearth. The room’s lit by rushlight. DeMalo sits by the window in his chair. He stares at the starfall night. A glass of blood dark wine in his hand.

I can hear the howl of a wolfdog. Tracker, not far off.

Star season, he says. Superstitious fools. They think this tumult is all down to you. The Angel of Death. He don’t turn his head. He must of heard me move. That wolfdog’s been howling for hours, he says.

I sit up an push off the blanket. I’m wearin a long shift. It’s thick an soft. He’s come to my bedside. He offers his hand. I look at it. Then I take it. I’m shaky as he helps me to a settle seat by the fire.

Covered dishes keep warm on the hearth. He sets one on a low table. Hands me a fork. Eat, he says. You must be hungry.

It’s scrambled egg. I take a small bite. He props hisself in the corner of the settle. One knee up, one foot on the floor. He’s poured me some wine. He watches me sip it.

You’re too thin, he says. Too pale. Our wedding day will be the first great event in the history of New Eden. I need you to look in bloom. I’ll speak to the woman, to Mercy. She’s bound to know a trick or two. He holds his glass to the firelight. Stares at its blood red richness. I scour New Eden for the most skilled midwife, he says, and where do they find her? In a slave gang. It beggars belief. With the babyhouses full to bursting all the time, we need every midwife we can get.

The babyhouse I seen was half full.

While you’ve been resting, I’ve been busy, he says. A wedding likes this takes much planning, preparation. It’s going to be extraordinary. Magnificent. It will bind us all together. One family, serving, healing the earth. This will be the true beginning of New Eden. The story will be told for generations to come.

He takes my hand in his. He looks tired. But beautiful. By the fire an lantern light, he’s burnished gold. Like Tommo in the sunlight that day.

I’ve waited for you. Now I have you, he says. Say my name.

Seth, I says.

He pulls me to him. Gathers me close. No, he says. Like you said it then.

Then. When I gave myself to him. I look in his blackwater eyes. An I whisper his name like he wants me to.

He goes to kiss me. I turn my head, slightly. With one finger to my chin, he brings me back to him. An I know the dark country of his mouth once more. The drug touch of his hands. The heat of his body. He leaves me cold. He stops. So ungenerous, Saba, he says. I’ll forgive you. This time.

He shifts back to the corner of the settle. I stare straight ahead as he looks at me. You’ll grow your hair long, he says. I want to see it against your skin. Now eat. I won’t have wasted food.

I lift my fork. Make myself eat another bite. He drinks his wine an watches me.

My men rounded up your rebel crew, he says. What was left of them. Three people in a junkyard. One’s the crazy old junk woman, I’m told. The Steward couple were easily found. Dealt with on the spot. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Small wonder you were ready to surrender. And, before you ask, no, you can’t see them. They’re somewhere secure until after the wedding. Don’t worry, I intend to keep my word. I have no wish for a resentful wife. What is it they say? A little kindness goes a long way.

He toasts me.

So … how do I rate your performance? he says. In this little endgame of ours. You were always going to lose, no matter what you did. Was it unfair advantage that I set your brother against you? You must know that I always have a safety net. I’m sorry to say … you rate low. I expected much more. I give you a week and the best you can do is free a few children from their intolerable life of three meals a day, a warm bed and a meaningful future. They’re all back at Edenhome in any case. And as for that sentimental trick of returning infants to their parents, I don’t suppose they’ll be thanking you now. He stares at me a long moment. There’s the tiniest of frowns between his eyes. Disappointing, Saba, he says. And perplexing. You’ve caused me some … inconvenience, that’s all. And rained your own blood upon your head. Your lover, the traitor, is the only one not accounted for. If he drowned, he’ll wash up downstream. If not, he’ll be found and dealt with.

He pulls somethin from his pocket. Shows it to me. It’s my little leather bag with the barkscroll messages. He says, Nero as go-between, I presume. That’s more like it. He tosses the bag on the fire.

Safe passage fer Jack too, I says. You promised.

What? he says. You’d have your brother die for nothing?

A single tear shames me. Tracks down my cheek.

He watches me as he drinks. What is this? he says. Self-pity? Guilt? Or is it grief?

It’s somethin in the way he asks. Not to taunt me. He wants to know. An at last I git it. His unreadable eyes. His smooth, blank face. Not blank becuz he’s hidin how he feels. Blank becuz he don’t feel nuthin. Kindness. Guilt. Grief. Self-pity. They’re jest words to him. He’s learned to say them at the right time.

We marry in two nights and one day, he says. Cry until then if you must, but no more. He empties his glass. I’ll have no red-eyed bride, he says. We’re not made of common dust like the rest. We have a destiny, you and I. Together. There’s much to be done. I have plans.

He kisses me agin. A hard kiss, like he owns me. Next time, we’ll know who the father is, he says.

He gits to his feet. Goes to the door. It opens an closes. He locks it behind him. He’s gone.

I sit. I stare in the fire. A sudden rattle at the window makes me jump. The gleam of black feathers in the lamplight, through the glass. My heart quickens.

Nero, I says.

He’s lifted the latch, like Mercy taught him. Silently, carefully—they mustn’t know he’s here—I open the window an bring him in. I can hear Tracker still howlin nearby. I lean out into the night. There ain’t nobody around. I whistle softly. Once. Twice. I wait. I wait. Then I see him by the light of the moon. A silver-grey streak, racin through the field towards the house. He flings hisself at the wall below me. Stretches on his hind legs to his full height. Hopin to try an reach me. But three bone-breaker floors stand between us.