Escaping Exodus Page 6

  Sonovan is Adalla’s tin uncle. Her real head-father died when she was just a young child, in a hull breach two exoduses ago that took the lives of thirty-eight souls. Though he has no real family authority under law, Sonovan has been a good pai to Adalla, a worthy husband to her head-mothers, and the whole family unit has benefited from his keen householding. In all my years visiting Adalla’s home, I’ve never seen so much as a crumb on the floor or a chair askew. Under my grandmatris’s rule, he had been hanged for adultery of the worst sort, lying with the wife of his will-husband. He was strung up for ten weeks for the offense, one week for each of the lives he’d ruined and shamed, and afterward he had been shunned and left to fend for himself. These amas had offered him sanctuary when no one else would. There was drama, of course—there always is with Adalla’s amas. But the scandal blew over, and people forgot, and Sonovan worked his way into the lonely bed of the head-wives. The amas’ hearts are just as big as their mouths are crude, so I’d heard their remarks about his waymaker being just as impressively long as his thumbs. Not information that I particularly wanted to know, but if gossip were grapes, Adalla’s amas could feed their entire village.

  “We are humbled to have you,” Morova says, her hand upon my knee. Of all the amas, she is the one I fear most, with that thin smile always set upon her face. “But if you break our daughter’s heart, Matris help you . . .” She leaves her threat open, her smile parting to reveal teeth stained a deep gray.

  “Morova!” Doram says, tugging her wife back. “That’s no way to treat our future law daughter.”

  “Law daughter!” I choke on the words, then look down at the bundle in my arm and then into the archway now occupied by Sonovan. Despite his transgressions, time has been nothing but kind to him. The whites of his eyes stand bright against the ink upon his face. Not a single patch of skin has been left bare, so that from afar, it looks to be a wash of solid purple. Then he nears, and I see the tale of love and loss and redemption. No one knows more about ink than Sonovan, and I am sure he can salvage the Texts, but I fear I have made a horrible transgression of my own.

  In my haste and desperation, I forgot that I am no longer a child and must now call upon Sonovan through the Lines. I should have addressed his head-wives first, or Adalla. There is only one exception to this, and that is when asking for a woman’s hand in marriage, where it is custom to offer a—

  “On behalf of my husband and wives, I accept this dowry with joy and gratitude,” Sonovan says, beaming at me as he attempts to take my bundled Texts from me. His long, limp thumbs flop over the sides as he tugs it. I do not release my grip. “Matriling Kaleigh, we are humbled to accept you into our fold.”

  “But—” I shout. I fumble to explain myself. “What I meant . . . What I came here for . . . Please, forgive me if I’ve misstepped . . .”

  “Burning lakes of ichor!” Sonovan exclaims. I realize I’ve let loose my grip, and the tome now stands unwrapped in his hands. “We could not possibly accept this . . .” He turns the Texts over and sees the giant stain. His eyes widen. “Morova, please fetch my tin oil and flashing cloth. Doram, a bucket of twice-laid soap. Purah, a full stretch of quarter claim from the market.”

  The amas protest at being ordered around in such a manner, but Sonovan stands firm, and the room clears.

  Then his mouth cinches, and I can tell he’s put together all the pieces of this misunderstanding. He looks at me. I wince, then nod, confirming that I am not here to woo his daughter. He bids me forward with an arched brow. “I’m afraid you’ve made everyone terribly excited. You know how the amas get. This will be news about the whole of the Ides before the next work shift.”

  “I know,” I say, wishing the floor would swallow me up whole. “How mad do you think Adalla will be?”

  “If you tell her before anyone else gets the chance, that should soften the blow. She should be home soon, if you want to wait.”

  “How is she? Did she tell you about the trouble we almost got into?” I know this answer. Adalla tells Sonovan everything. It’s annoying, but in turn, he’s come to be a confidant to me as well.

  “With the lash counter, yes. I told her it was a bad plan, but the girl never listens. Maybe this position in the heart will be good for her. Teach her some discipline.”

  I sit bolt upright. So she had gotten the promotion. I feel like a terrible friend, missing out on something so important. What do you get to celebrate something like that? I could pick her some flowers from the woodward canopies. Nice bloated ones that would dribble fluorescent ooze for days.

  “I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” I say, standing up to leave.

  “Mmm,” he says, already studying the stain, then dabbing the oils laid out beside him.

  I make my way out of their home and run into Adalla standing in the archway, not dressed in the beastworker’s suit that’s become indistinguishable from her own skin, but in a bright orange heartworker’s dress. I’m almost glad that I’ve come empty-handed, because the most beautiful blooms would pale in comparison to her new look.

  My heart leaps and knocks against my rib cage. “Adalla! Congratulations!”

  I go to hug her, but she cringes away from me, wincing. She’s mad at me. I get it.

  “I should have said something earlier. I should have remembered. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not that,” she says. “And thanks.” She turns, and I see several strips of blood soaking through her clothes.

  “Sonovan!” I yell out. He comes running and sees the blood marks across her back.

  “I’m fine,” Adalla says as he lifts her dress to inspect the damage. Twenty-seven welts, I count them all.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The secrets of heartwork.” She grins hard at me. “I did it, Seske. I made it to the heart.”

  Sonovan stands there, looking between Adalla and me. “Tend to her first,” I tell him. “The Texts can wait.”

  Sonovan scuttles out of the room, then returns with clean cloths and ointments. He applies them gently and efficiently, and in no time, Adalla is nearly good as new. He leaves us alone to return the Texts back to their pristine form. Hopefully.

  “You really can’t tell me anything?” I ask Adalla.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy in all things heart-related. But there was one thing that was . . . odd.”

  “What?” I lean in. “Did you see Quiet Medla?”

  “No. No spirits. But I saw someone. A helper. Seske, she looked just like me. Or close enough to it. We worked together some today. She didn’t speak a word. But I don’t know, there was just something about her. I feel like I’m missing a limb I never even knew I had. I have to find out more. Who she is. Where she lives.”

  There’s something that Adalla isn’t quite saying: a word that’s practically sacrilege. I don’t hold back, though. “You think she’s your sister? That your parents have a secret child out there that they never told you about? Plenty of people look alike, Adalla. And trust me, if she is your sister, you don’t want anything to do with her. They’re nothing but trouble.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “But since when have you been known to turn down a chance to get into trouble?”

  She’s got me there. I smile.

  “You’ll come with me then?” She pulls my hand.

  “Now? But your back.”

  “It’s fine. Apparently twenty-seven lashes is the record for a heartworker’s first day on the job.”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s like me bragging that I only ruined one volume of the ancient Texts today.”

  Adalla sticks her tongue at me. “That’s the lowest number, Seske. The previous record was fifty-five.”

  “This is sounding like a pretty awful job. And aren’t you supposed to be all hush-hush with heartwork secrets?”

  “Well, tell me a secret and we’ll be even.” She leans in close, her earlobe next to my lips.

  “I carved our names into my desk.” A small secret. Harmless. Maybe.

&n
bsp; “That’s not a secret. You told me about that years ago.”

  “Well, I did it again. Today. I didn’t want any random boneworker re-creating it. I wanted to carve it myself. Again.”

  “Did you at least spell my name right this time?”

  “Daidi’s bells,” I cuss. Adalla pinches my cheek, then leads me out and through the Ides. We run fast and hard, but she notices the stares we’re getting.

  “Why is everyone grinning at us like that?” she asks.

  Oh. I forgot to tell her. “I might have accidentally asked Sonovan for your hand in marriage.”

  “You what?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It was a big misunderstanding. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to tell your amas that before they ran off.”

  “All of the Ides knows by now, then. They can’t possibly take it seriously, though. You. Me. Really?”

  “Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” I grumble. A beastworker marrying someone in the Contour class is scandal enough, but the heir to the throne? Only I don’t know why it should matter. Not saying that I do want to marry her for sure, but I know the idea of not being with her is awful. It pains me that we won’t be able to enjoy each other’s company like this anymore. At least we’ll have this one last adventure together, and I intend to make the most of it.

  “It’ll blow over soon enough,” Adalla says. “Gossip is the one thing we’re never in short supply of, betcha.”

  “Mmm.” I hope she’s right.

  She leads us farther and farther away from the Ides, into a section of the beast I’ve never been in. The air thickens, almost to the point of being suffocating, the sweet smell of home replaced by something danker and more sinister. “The bowels?” I ask. “You’re sure about this?”

  “No. I asked around, but no one knew where she went after shift, or else they just wouldn’t tell me. But there are hundreds of waifs, Seske, maybe thousands, helping out, filling in when needed. People treat them like shit, like they don’t matter. I just kinda thought . . . if they’re not in the Ides, where do they go? This seems . . . right. Where else would you put a bunch of people you want to pretend don’t exist?”

  Anywhere but here is what I’m thinking. “Seems right by me too” is what I say. I inch closer to the pond of cool, debris-ridden slime that rims the sphincter. It pulses, back and forth, back and forth, a putrid-looking pucker of flesh. Adalla sticks both of her hands in the hole and pulls hard, her muscles rippling and bulging. The rim tries to hold tight, even looks like it’s tugging against her, but eventually it gives, and the hole widens just enough for a person to slip through. I hesitate, but not just because of the lewd pucker of flesh in front of me. I’ve spent so much of my life wishing I didn’t have a sister, and I can’t imagine wanting to go through all of this to find one on purpose.

  “After you . . .” Adalla says, nodding me forward.

  My face is a knot, but I work my way through the sludge, put a foot on her outstretched knee for a boost, and then wiggle my way over. I try to catch myself on the other side, but it’s so slippery, so slimy, my every attempt at gaining purchase results in empty fists, and then I’m welcomed face-first into the swamp of putridity. Wet debris clings to my eyelashes, blankets my skin, and creeps in the corners of my mouth no matter how tightly I keep it shut. As Adalla slips through the hole, the sphincter shuts behind her, and the light from the other side vanishes, leaving us completely in the dark.

  Adalla lands besides me, then seconds later, a small blip of candlelight casts the entire room in a soft, warm glow. She lights another candle for me. I ask Adalla why we just don’t use a ley light, but apparently these scented candles are meant to ward away spirits. I’m not about to question her on it now. Shadows dance, flickering across walls. If there’s anything haunted in this beast, this is where it resides. With my free hand, I try to wipe my face of muck, but fail miserably. And when I realize it’s crawling over me, fuzzy little worms, I focus all my energy on not screaming.

  “There, let’s follow the path and see where this thing takes us,” Adalla says, somehow unfazed by the worms.

  “I know where it leads . . . a long stretch of filth then another sphincter, and then the final one that drops us off in the dead of space.”

  “We won’t have to go that far,” she says, but she can tell this is bugging me. “Four hundred steps. That’s it. We don’t see anything, we come back. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  We make our way around polyps and fissures spewing bubbles into the grimy puddles of water at our feet. It’s warm and dank in here, and smells like a backed-up drain, and I can’t even imagine how many baths I’ll have to take to get all the stink off. The walls undulate around us, and long, gristly strings hang from the ceiling, occasionally slapping against our foreheads. Then the candlelight hits them just right, and I realize they have teeth.

  My hand slips into Adalla’s, and I try to put on a brave front, but inside, I’m counting down the steps until we can turn back and declare this adventure over and done. Just fifty more now.

  But then, 387 steps in, we see it. Signs of civilization. Giant polyps erupt from the walls of the beast, narrow at the base, but widening toward the top, big enough to house two or three people. Dim lights shine from inside, and we see silhouettes. Eating, playing, working. Dancing. But the entire camp is quiet. Dead quiet.

  “Quiet Medla was here,” Adalla says, nodding to herself. “I told you spirits are real. The waifs must have skipped prayers, sure is sure is sure.” She reaches into her satchel, pulls out sweet-scented twine, breaks a piece off, then hands it to me. “Here. Chew on this. Just in case she’s still wandering about.”

  I take the piece, unsure of how it’s supposed to protect me, but still chewing the heck out of it. Adalla and I creep closer. I glance over my shoulder at the puckered sphincter leading back to the first bowel. It’s not too late to abort our mission.

  In the center of the village, frothy liquid bubbles up from a fissure. A few dozen waif girls gather around it, collecting pieces of debris and putting them into baskets. Their hands and arms move about excitedly.

  “This is eerie,” I whisper. “Too eerie. I want to go back.” But even my whisper carries like normal speech in this place. Damn near a scream. The silhouettes all stop. All turn toward me. One by one, they slide down the polyps, exiting through a little flap of skin at the base. They see us, and Adalla and I, we run so fast, our feet splatting through shallow puddles. They’re gaining on us, silent, but they might as well be cussing us for encroaching on their land. We’ve gone too far. Adalla grabs my elbow, pulls me sideways into a flap of flesh; she takes her knife and cuts until there’s room enough for us to tuck fully inside. On the outside, footsteps press past us, then it’s quiet, but neither one of us is ready to move.

  Her chest rises and falls. My breath huffs so hard I knock out my candlelight.

  “Daidi’s bells!” I mumble.

  “It’s not out, not completely,” she says. “Watch this.” Adalla holds her candle flame several inches above my extinguished wick. A tiny bead of light works its way down, until it hits my wick and it bursts once again into a flame.

  My breath catches as the candlelight hits her face just right. Sure, it’s covered in living, crawling moss. And sure, we both smell like the deep end of a latrine. But that’s the thing about Adalla: I can be anywhere with her, anywhere, and all that other stuff melts away, like we’re two souls, floating out in the void—stars at our backs, and stars in our eyes. I could kick myself for wasting my first kiss on Wheytt, when it could have been here . . . Adalla and me, in the worst of situations. In the best of situations.

  “Cool trick,” I say. “Can I try?”

  “Sure,” whispers Adalla. Then she blows her candle out.

  Then I blow my candle out.

  In the dark, covered in moss, slime, and dozens of other substances I don’t even want to think about, I lean forward until I feel Adalla’s breath upon my face. We are close. So cl
ose.

  “Seske?” comes her voice, soft, timid. Nothing like the confident girl I’ve known since forever.

  “Yes, Adalla,” I say, the tension throbbing inside me causing my voice to crack.

  “How much longer do we have? You know, until thoughts of me kissing you will get me killed?”

  I pause, frowning. A few months, likely. But I could delay, find excuses to feed Matris. Avoid declaring a suitor for years. Adalla and I could sneak away just like this . . . well, not just like this, but we could sneak away to private spots, spend our moments skin to skin, all the burdens of life left behind. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” I tell her, trying to believe it myself. “I’ll give up being heir if I have to. I won’t be any good at it anyway.”

  “Seske, you are not giving up your claim to the throne, for me or for anyone. You are more deserving of it than any woman who’s sat on it before you. And you’ll be better than all of them too.”

  I wish I believed in me the way Adalla believes in me. “I’ll forgo suitors then,” I declare. “Matris will be upset, but she’ll have all the problems of this favorless beast to deal with. And then, when I’m Matris . . .”

  My chest tightens, thinking of her ama’s threat—if you break our daughter’s heart . . . But I would never do such a thing.

  “What, Seske?” she asks. I can taste the hope on her breath. She wants to know if this will ever be more than a secret affair, if she’ll ever be allowed upon my arm in public.

  “I can promise you my reign will be full of scandals, and you, Adalla, will be my first one.”

  Our noses touch. All the tension between us melts away. And then with a furious force, I am upon her, but not in the way I’d hoped. We are knocking together, and our foreheads become weapons, limbs butting against each other, her elbow in my eye, and I’m thinking something’s definitely wrong, because it’s not supposed to be this shaky, this loud. We grip each other, holding tight against the tremors shaking us senseless. I am screaming, but the wail of the beast swallows all. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the quake subsides, followed by a gentle pulsing of flesh pressed all around us.