The Letting (2 page)

I hear a faint snore, but I go on remembering my history textbook, my story almost verbatim. “The rest of the people, the ‘Selfish People’, or the ‘Takers’ as we call them, spent their time working with the sole intent to make money. They were involved in hedonistic rituals, useless recreational activities, and the constant pursuit of happiness. The most wasteful of all of these things was the time they spent on small machines they carried with them day in and day out—machines they claimed connected them to the rest of the world.”

“They didn’t?” asks a still wide-awake camper. Straining through the darkness, I see it is Violet, Lilly’s older sister, who’s asked the question. The fact that she’s asked this, and not the meaning of the word hedonistic, proves they are now prepping these girls at a remarkably young age. Lilly sleeps now, curled up next to Violet, snoring faintly.

“No,” I answer. “These people spent more and more time in isolation, asking these machines to do more and more things for them. Soon the machines were everywhere, and they had taken over. Schools as we know them ceased to exist. All students learned their schoolwork at home, staring into one of those machines that would connect them to their classroom. All adults worked from home too, and soon social interaction became passé. They were a civilization of lazy, greedy people who relied entirely on machines. Soon, their once overpopulated world began to die off because there was no social interaction left between people. Within a few generations, they forgot how.”

“But social interaction is mandatory.” It’s Lulu. She sits up and leans forward, waiting for my response. I look at her, stunned. I had no idea they were now informing girls this young about the Couplings. She can read the look on my face. “I’m the oldest.”

Through the darkness, I can see her shrug. “I overheard the Collector telling my mother she was due.”

I nod. I look at Lulu’s bright blue eyes and long blonde hair, and I know her mother must have fought hard to free Lulu from the life of a Coupling. For some reason, tonight I can’t help myself.

I glance at the little girl. “Lulu, if you’re the oldest, do you know how many brothers or sisters you have?” I realize I’m whispering, and clear my throat.

“I know of three for sure,” she answers quietly. “Two were boys and my sister, Clara, who will probably be coming here soon. Hopefully. I’ve told her all about the New World. And all about you.”

“Me?” I ask, surprised. “How did you tell her about me?” I wonder if Lulu has some secret communication going with the city.

“I told her before. I told her we could have a better life if we were a good match. We all know about you. It’s a big honor to come to your camp.”

I am floored by the prospect of anyone in the city knowing me, but still it makes me smile. I know I am a good government worker, and one of the main reasons Margaret hates me so very much is because I have been highly decorated as a Leader. One whole wall of my cabin is filled with plaques and documents honoring me for my excellent service. I have singlehandedly brought more girls to the Lettings than anyone else, ever, in the history of the world. And what’s more, I have succeeded, time and again, from keeping the rebels, who want to steal the young girls, far from our camp.

Yet, despite all that, there is some question in my mind. Some seed my mother planted, all those years ago. But tonight, like every night, I push that grain of uncertainty away and focus on my accomplishments. It is hot tonight, but the sense of pride I feel is comforting. I look over the bodies of my four little girls, wondering about them. How many have siblings they know nothing about? What were their lives like back home? Only one, Raven, the singular one of them with dark hair, seems wide awake. She stares at me with watchful eyes, trying to anticipate my next move. Lilly wakes with a start, and the other two stretch and yawn, and then, once again, Lilly begins to doze.

“The Old World was every man for himself,” I explain, trying to get back on track.

Something about the way Raven looks at me is unnerving, so I concentrate on the words I am saying. I see them laid out on the pages of a textbook, in front of me.

“Since they were a violent people, they eventually broke out of their confines and brought their basic human needs to the streets. Ironically, once they finally had the one on one contact they so desperately needed, it was too late. Total anarchy began, and they depleted resources until there was nothing left. Thankfully, our forefathers were there to save those few people who survived, and since then the New World has triumphed.

“But the damage done by the selfish people was not completely eradicated. The Takers of the Old World left us in the dire straits we are in now, barely surviving.” My words come faster and louder. “Food and happiness have become commodities that are rationed by our knowledgeable guides.” I suddenly realize I went off script. I look around quickly, avoiding eye contact with Raven, my eyes darting up and down the row of girls, wondering if any one of them was awake enough to notice. Especially Raven. “Food and happiness rationed?”

Rationed? Those few words are the words of a rebel, not the calm, strong Leader that I’m supposed to be. That I am. No matter what else, I am true to my civic duty. There is no question I am here for morale. I believe in our government and what we are doing more than anyone else. I know human beings were near extinction. I know it is a privilege to be released from the factories and squalor of the city and to be brought here to camp, with its beautiful lake and picturesque woods, to prepare for the Lettings. I know how lucky I was, me in particular, to be chosen for the Lettings and not for the Couplings. What I do is a civic duty, but it is also an honor. And when these girls blossom, they move on to the New World where they share in all of its glories and riches. My one regret is that I was never chosen to donate. But at least I can prepare those who can. No, I am certainly not a rebel. I am far from it. I am the girl who has willingly led hundreds of young girls to the Lettings.

I want to reiterate, to explain what I meant to say, but try as I might, I am tongue-tied. Suddenly, I feel young, and the image of my mother sitting at the edge of my bed is so vivid it takes my breath away. In the darkness and safety of the night, she told me stories of her mother’s great-grandmother who was part of the generation that lived in the Old World. She spoke so softly I strained to hear her words, and often wondered if they were truly meant for me to hear. I remember my mother dipping her small, white hand into a tin containing oil taken from sheep’s wool, and rubbing the calluses on my hands that formed from hours spent toiling in the factory. Quietly, in those moments only a mother and daughter can share, she told of a magical place where young girls were brought to dance classes and horseback riding lessons. Where they played in backyards littered with dandelions and not trash. Once, to show me what they looked like, she drew me a picture of a dandelion, which I still have to this day. I knew she had the impulse to crumple it up and throw it away, but instead, she gave it to me. She told me if anyone ever found that picture, I must tell them it is a picture of a flower in the New World I am eager to see. But these are not things I can share with these girls. These are things I should not even know. These things my mother said, confuse me still.

I clear my throat, snapping back to the suffocating heat of this night. “So, we are here today thanks to a few good people.”

“The Givers,” Raven whispers, sounding in awe of the word.

“The Givers,” I repeat back to her, solemnly. “Thanks to the Givers, we are all here today. And you girls, all chosen to participate in the Lettings, are so very special, because you will one day be able to cross into the New World.”

Soft spontaneous applause erupts. I smile at them, glad for their innocence and excitement, but somehow in my blood tonight, I feel it’s just not…right. I blame my odd feeling on the heat and try to push the thoughts out of my head. “All right girls, it’s lights out.” I start to rise.

“But the New World,” Lulu says quietly. “We didn’t hear about the New World.”

I can hear the ache in her voice. It is a young girl’s ache, brought about by loneliness. The way she speaks, the way she asks, I know she is holding on by a thread. She is waiting for her reunion. She is waiting to be back with her mother. I know that ache all too well. I’ve felt it for the past seven years.

“Okay,” I agree, feeling the tightness in my own throat. I am shocked I still feel this way after all of this time. Although I tried to let go of hope years ago, it seems hope won’t let go of me. Maybe that’s why I still sneak out every night, way past Leader’s curfew, to go deep into the woods to eat those mushrooms my mother insisted I eat when I was young.

“Veronica,” my mother had said that night. There was no impatience in her voice, though I could see the intensity in her eyes. “These are very special mushrooms.”

We were somewhere in the middle of our city, deep inside an old park. A place I had never been before. It was overgrown with weeds, and I remember the feeling of the weeds, hard and strong, brushing against my leg. One weed cut me slightly, but I could tell from my mother’s expression, it was not the time to tell her. It was time to concentrate.

“These will help you grow strong, but you must, must eat them every day. Do you understand me?”

I was too overwhelmed to speak.

“Now watch me,” my mother said. “These mushrooms are poisonous.” She pointed to another patch of mushrooms. They grew right next to the safe patch, and they looked remarkably similar.

“See how these grow in clusters?” she asked. “You have to avoid these. Veronica, listen to me.”

I looked up at her, feeling the urgency in what she said.

“The poisonous mushrooms will kill you.”

I felt myself take a step back from the mushroom patch. “But these others,” she said, squatting down and scooping up a single mushroom, “these will save your life.”

I only nodded at her that day, unaware of what any of it meant. She offered me the mushroom, and I bit into it, dirt and all. It tasted bitter, musky, and the grit ground in my teeth.

“Pew,” I exclaimed, spitting the mushroom onto the ground. I looked up at my mother. “It’s horrible.”

“I know.” She stood there stiffly for a few moments and then took the remainder of the mushroom out of my hand and dusted off all the dirt. “This should help.” She handed it back to me, and I took another bite. It still tasted bitter and musky, but there was less grittiness.

“Are you sure these are the right ones?” I asked, chewing as quickly as I could.

“Yes,” my mother said, never cracking a smile. She stepped forward and held out another. And you must be sure, too. Look.” She turned the mushroom upside down. “Look under the cap.”

“Here?”

“Yes. This part is called the gills. In your mushrooms, the spores hang onto the bottom of the cap. They are shaped like large round circles. This is how you know your mushrooms.”

“But they look like so many other mushrooms,” I remember saying, exasperated. My mother stepped forward and took me by the hand.

“These are your mushrooms,” she said, softly. And still holding my hand, we walked off together, through the tall weeds and past fallen bridges, until we saw the ancient clock with the animals, lying on the ground. This was to be my marker, my way in and out of the old park alone.

“You’ll be tired now,” she said to me. “Sleepy. The mushrooms will make you sleepy until your body gets used to them. That’s why you must remember to eat only one at a time.”

They tasted so vile, there was never any concern about me wanting more. That’s all I remember of that day.

And here, now, seven years later, I can navigate my way in and out of these deep woods alone. I can find my mushrooms in the pitch black of night with the stars as my guide. Still at seventeen-years-old, I steal away every night, though my reason for eating those mushrooms has dissolved. Certainly, by telling me the mushrooms would save my life, my mother meant they had nutrition I would never receive elsewhere. And she must have been right, because standing next to the other Leaders at camp I am nearly a foot taller than any one of them.

My jet black hair is long, too. It hangs down my back with a soft wave at the bottom. My skin is shiny, the color of maple syrup. Everything about me is strong. My arms, my long legs, even my facial features are prominent—my nose, high cheekbones, and dark brown, almond shaped eyes. I don’t know if I’m attractive, because frankly, it’s never mattered. My mother told me once some of my father’s ancestors were the first people to live on this land. The “Natives,” I think she called them. The other ancestors came from an exotic place on the other side of the world, a thriving place that once was painted in the color red. He was a perfect mix of both of them, and she said I am the spitting image of him. I like that, because although I’ve never known my father, we are still connected. And now, although I’m nearly grown, and I’m no longer in need of nutrition to help me grow, I still walk the woods nightly, telling myself it would make my mother happy. My mother whom I haven’t heard from in four years. This ritual is the only other connection I have to my family, and it is one I cannot lose.

I need to shake my growing malaise and let these girls be hopeful. Looking over them, they seem no larger than the porcelain dolls I once made in the factory in the city. Is it possible that in only two days these tiny wisps of people will be hooked up to a complex system of machines far bigger than they are? Is it really their duty to allow the blood to be drained from their tiny, emaciated bodies? Even if it is all for the greater good? Yes, I tell myself, shaking my head. What they do is important. Someday, when they are old and living in the New World, if they need blood, a new crop of fledgling girls, just “ripe,” will supply them. It is the natural progression of life. And with that, I settle down to concoct a story of sweet candy drops hanging from trees and bedrooms filled with toys as far as the eye can see. And, of course, families who will be right there, next to them.