Birthmarked (8 page)

She was instantly aware of how clean everything was inside the wall. Every building was whitewashed, so that even by night, a little bit of light went a long way. On the narrow streets, the doorways were set on high sills over clean-swept gutters, and she saw frequent drain grates, so she knew that what she’d heard was true: the rain was saved from the streets, saved for recycling into drinking water. It
would take work, but we could do the same thing outside,
she thought. By the occasional streetlights, she could see urns hanging in some of the windows, large, decorated ceramic water holders that would keep the contents cool even in the scorching heat of midsummer. That, at least, was the same.

Gaia walked firmly and quickly along the dark streets, startled when her motion triggered streetlamps to come on while she passed. Thin, white light from the little bulb in each lamp was magnified and reflected around her. Whenever there was an option of which direction to take, she chose the way that sloped uphill. Eventually she came to a main street, wider than the others, bordered with finer row houses. She had a glimpse of shadowy vegetation coming over the white walls, and in one place she recognized the leaves of an apple tree, so she knew gardens were tended on the other side. It was all just as she’d seen in the Tvaltar specials, only better because now it was real.

Twice she passed other women traveling in pairs, all dressed in red. They barely glanced at her as she drew the hood of her tunic near her face and kept on. Once a solitary old man passed her, and then several young men, but they all ignored her, and with growing confidence, she realized Derek had been right: she was taken for a servant. At last, as the sky began to lighten in the east, she came to a graveled open area with several closed shops, and then farther above, a wider, stone-paved square with an enormous building at one end that stretched the entire width of the space. This, she realized, must be the Square of the Bastion. Arched arcades lined two sides of the square, and a prodigious obelisk monument dominated the center, black against the distant purple of the sky.

Gaia stepped under an arcade and rested beside one of the wooden columns. Near the obelisk, a pair of men were hammering at a platform, a single lightbulb illuminating their work, and their rhythmic bangs echoed around the square.

At right angles to the largest building, the Bastion, along the fourth side of the square, were several functional looking buildings behind tall iron fences. A tall, brick archway separated two of them, and beyond, Gaia glimpsed a smaller court’ yard. She was starting in that direction when she heard a cry that made her pause.

It was the cry of a baby, and the noise keyed directly into Gala’s nervous system, setting her on high alert. She scanned the buildings for the noise, and above the arched arcade she saw a window with a light glowing behind a curtain. The cry subsided, then came once more. An arm reached out of the window and pulled a shutter closed. Gaia listened intently, but then the only noise she could hear was the distant voice of one of the workers while the hammering paused. Unnerved, she pulled her cloak closer around her. That might be a baby she herself had advanced.

She examined the building, looking for signs that it might be the Nursery, but she judged it was more likely to be a private apartment, like others above the shops of the arcade.

“It’s okay,” Gaia whispered, calming herself. She was all right so far, but she was impatient to know more about her surroundings. It was daunting to realize how little practical information she had gathered from the Tvaltar specials shed seen. They had focused on celebrations and holidays, when what she could use now was a guidebook with a decent map.

Gaia drew back farther as the clatter of marching feet approached, and suddenly four guards appeared in the tall, brick archway. They stomped loudly past Gaia, and she saw that in the midst of them was a fifth figure, a man whose hands were tied behind him and who stumbled along on bare feet. They marched toward the massive building at the end of the square and up the shallow stairs to the great door. It opened to admit them, and all five men disappeared inside the Bastion.

Gaia shivered. She turned again to the archway the guards had come from, and now she was certain the prison lay beyond it. Glancing up, she saw a small tower above and to the right of the arch, its dark angles silhouetted against the ever-brightening sky. If a guard were surveying the square, she would be visible where she stood. Turning sharply to her left, she skirted the edge of the building and circled around to the back. More barred windows met her gaze, and with them her hopes sank. How would she ever get into the prison to see her parents? And worse, how would she ever get them out?

“Hey! You there!” a voice called.

She jumped nervously and turned.

A tall guard was ambling toward her. “What are you selling?”

“Nothing,” she gasped. “I was just-- “

“Get along, then. No gawking. You won’t see nothing from here. Come back later at noon, and you’ll get your view.”

Gaia stepped back a pace. “Yes, Mabrother,” she said. She turned and hurried away, barely noticing her direction in her eagerness to leave him behind. She heard him laugh, and the noise sounded brittle and cold to her ears.

The sky was becoming gradually lighter, with a tinge of yellow, and more people were coming out into the streets. She kept walking, afraid to stop, afraid to go too far downhill again in case she got lost. Above, people hung out lines of laundry between the buildings, and as she looked down, she marveled to see that everyone wore shoes, even the children. Old or young, everyone looked healthy and well fed.

Outside the wall, it was common to see someone with a scar or a deformed hand or crutches. But here in the Enclave, where there were no deformities or handicaps of any kind, her scar would seem even more freakish. Anyone who saw it would know she was from the outside, and she walked in perpetual fear that someone would peer closely inside her hood. Once a young boy looked up into her face and pulled the hand of the woman beside him. “Look,” he said, pointing, but by the time his mother turned, Gaia had concealed her scar again.

By late morning, Gaia had wandered much of the area around the main square. She was thirsty, tired, and afraid. As she saw it, her choices were to seek help from Derek’s friend Mace, if she could find the baker with a black oven; try to find Masister Khol at the Nursery in case she might help her the way she’d helped with passing her mothers note; or keep a low profile until night, when she could escape again through Derek’s hole in the wall. She searched in vain for the bakery and the Nursery, passing a graveyard, a bicycle shop, several ware’ houses and cafes, and the mycoprotein factory before circling back to the square again.

Then, as noon drew near, the square began to fill with people. In her anxiety, she studied their faces under their hat brims and gauzy hoods, watching for Masister Khol or a young man who could be one of her brothers, but as the faces turned into dozens and then hundreds, she despaired of finding one she might recognize. Gradually she noticed a pattern in the vivid colors of their clothing. The guards wore black. Red-clad female servants passed frequently, some with arm baskets or young children by the hand. Sturdy men and women of all ages wore blues and grays and browns, and she guessed these were a middle class by their relaxed airs and the jovial way the men slapped each other on the back. Children darted by in yellow and red and green, their wide-brimmed hats tilting with speed, while a separate class of elegant men and women wore only white that gleamed in the sunlight. Those in white lingered in loosely knit social groups nearest the Bastion, where there was a row of shady pecan trees, and they laughed and talked idly, occasionally giving coins to their children to buy a trinket or a drink from a vendor.

Gaia returned to the corner of the arcade to stand with her left side partially concealed by a pillar. Several other young women in red converged just in front of her, gossiping softly, and as guards started coming out of the tall, brick arch of the prison she overheard the tallest say: “No I don ‘t think so. He wouldn’t dare be absent.”

“Oh, my gosh. He’s in front of the Bastion! Near the Protectorat’s family!” another girl said.

Gaia looked toward the mansion. The large double doors were thrown open, and a white-clad man and woman strode forward. Hints of gold gleamed in the fabric of their clothes, and the woman wore a wide-brimmed hat with stunning white feathers. Behind them came another couple even more dazzling than the first, until more than twenty people ‘were scattered along the terrace in front of the mansion. They mingled with the other people dressed in white in an easy flow up and down the terrace steps. The Protectorate family and friends bore themselves with an unstudied grace that was even more impressive live than it was on the Tvaltar.

“Rita actually danced with him?” giggled one of the girls.

The tall girl spun around in response, and Gaia guessed she must be Rita. Her features had an arresting, sloe-eyed vitality, combined with hair the rich color of honey that spilled out from the edges of her red hood. “Are you suggesting I would lie about something so trivial?” Rita asked in clipped tones.

“You? Lie? Oh, never,” said the other girl.

Gaia felt the flick of Rita’s eyes and knew she was seen. For a sharp instant, she felt the intensity of Rita’s scrutiny, like a cat scratching its paw over a bug, and then dismissal.

“Keep your voice down, Bertha Claire,” Rita said to the giggling girl.

“He’s just so dreamy,” the girl teased, and Rita slugged her in the arm.

“Ouch! Okay,” Bertha Claire said, still smiling. “Did you hear he was promoted?”

Even without looking at her directly, Gaia felt Rita shoot one last glance in her direction, and then turn her shoulder away. Gaia couldn’t hear Rita’s response.

Gaia looked again at the people on the Bastion steps, and this time she saw him: a tall, serious young man in a black uniform with a rifle slung over his shoulder. His black hat shaded the top half of his face, but she was near enough to recognize the angle of his jaw and the steady line of his mouth. She knew instinctively that Sgt. Grey was the guard the girls were gossiping about. He absently lifted his hat and ran a hand back through his hair. Beside him stood a blond guard, a taller young man, who nudged Sgt. Grey and nodded in the direction of the girls.

Gaia looked quickly toward the jail before there was a chance she could meet his gaze.

“He’s looking this way! Rita!” Bertha Claire squealed.

There was a hushed flurry of conversation among the girls, and then Rita’s voice: “Would you stop? What are you, twelve?”

Gaia deliberately drew farther back behind the pillar.

By the jail, rows of prisoners were being filed behind the iron fence, and Gaia scanned each face fearfully, looking for her parents. The men and women looked weary, their faces as gray and worn as their prison garb. Some had their hands tied behind their backs, but others held each other in frightened embraces, their eyes scanning the crowd and the platform before the monument. Nowhere did Gaia see her parents.

Gaia heard a thudding noise, and then a ripple of silence expanded outward from the center of the square where the platform stood. Two nooses had been slung from a beam, and the noon sun shone brightly on the gray ropes.

“Oh, no,” Gaia whispered, clenching her fingers into fists.

A prisoner, his hands tied, had fallen on the steps to the platform, and Gaia saw him rest there, unmoving, until a guard came and raised him urgently to his feet to push him up the steps to the gallows. His brown hair was mussed, his clothes filthy, but his eyes were alight and defiant. He was followed by a young woman whose hands were also tied, and she needed the guard beside her to help her keep her balance. Her black hair had fallen across her pale features, and her shoulders sagged in her gray prison dress. When she reached the top step and turned to face the crowd, there was an audible murmur from the spectators.

The prisoner s belly thrust outward and up in the unmistakable bulge of pregnancy.

Chapter 7

Noon

“OH, MY GOSH. SHE’S HUGE,” said Bertha Claire.

“Would you hush up?” Rita snapped. “It’s an abomination.”

Gaia’s outrage surpassed her shock. By her guess, the woman was due to deliver within days. She could not fathom any crime that would merit such a punishment. Why couldn’t the Enclave wait another week, two at most, until after she had delivered? They must all realize that killing the mother would mean killing her innocent baby, too.

Instinctively, she stepped down from the arcade and began to walk toward the platform. A guard threw a burlap bag over the mans face.

“This verdict is wrong!” the prisoner yelled. “It’s our right to marry and our right to have a child!”

Gaia could see his wife say something softly to him. With his hands tied behind him and the sack over his face, he leaned toward her, and then Gaia saw something that broke her heart. The condemned man blindly shuffled his foot over toward his wife’s until his boot met hers. His wife began to cry. The guard threw a second burlap bag over her face.

“No,” Gaia breathed.

The prisoner cried out again, his voice breaking: “Spare my wife! I’m begging you, spare my child!”

Gaia looked around, incredulous that no one was intervening. It was a torture game, wasn’t it? They couldn’t really go through with this. She took another step forward, stumbling against a bearded man.

“Watch yourself!” he snapped.

Gaia heard a disturbance from the prisoners by the jail, and she looked over to see her mother’s face. Her mother had pushed forward to the fence and gripped it with both hands; she was staring hard at Gaia across the crowded square.

“Mother,” Gaia whispered. She expected her mother to yell, to say something to the guard who was now fitting a noose around the male prisoner’s neck, but her mother looked only at Gaia with a mute, pleading expression. She shook her head slightly, her lips bitten inward, and Gaia knew clearly what the message was: Do nothing.