Patricia Forde - The Last Lie

#231

Hare

Small wild animal

The ink was dark and slightly sticky. Crimson. It reminded her of blood. It was made from berries, harvested in autumn, the precious juice extracted when the first leaves began to fall. Letta dipped her nib in carefully, trying to avoid any splashes. The cards were lined up before her. One word on each card. One word from the mother tongue they had all but lost. This batch described wildflowers.

Buttercup. Daisy. Primrose. Cowslip.

Each letter was written in her own cursive script, red ink on white card. She pressed the nib to the card, heard the gentle scratch, the smell of berries and vinegar wafting around her head.

Ready? Marlo asked, pulling on his jacket.

Yes, she said. I just need to pack my bag.

He waited as she put the cards into their boxes, then handed her the old leather satchel, his strong hands touching hers for a second as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower. She slipped the boxes into the satchel alongside a slim volume of stories. She fastened the straps, enjoying the feel of the old leather and its rich, spicy smell. It smelled of home. This had been Benjamins satchel. Benjamin, her beloved mentor, who had raised her after her parents went away.

All set? Marlo smiled at her.

She followed him across the floor of the old pump house, up the ladder, and through the trapdoor. They walked across the high, dusty hallway that smelled of bats and mold and damp. Marlo nodded to the young man who stood guard, and he in turn looked through the peephole. Letta waited. The boy pushed against the great doors. They swung open, complaining loudly on their rusty hinges. The boy checked that the way was clear outside, then stood back to let Letta and Marlo pass. Letta breathed in the cold air. All around her, the trees whispered in the wind, leaves shivering as the fat plop of raindrops hit the forest floor.

Thirty minutes later, they were walking through the rough grass of open fields. A world of ruts and stinging nettles, of waterlogged sod and winds laden with the smell of damp, earthy moss. The landscape had the pallor of a dying afternoon in winter, with everything and everyone locked in its cold embrace. An east wind had moved in overnight, bringing with it a slate sky and constant showers of wintry rain. Letta and Marlo climbed, hand in icy hand, as the land stretched upward, a slope that was bald and bare from the heavy rainfall.

At the summit, they paused to catch their breath. Below them, Letta could see the dell, with a thicket of small trees and bushes that would hide them from prying eyes. When they reached it, she settled herself, sitting with her back pressed against an old pine tree, the dampness permeating her thin clothes. They had chosen this place because the land had been left fallow. There were no workers to worry about, no reason for anyone to be there. Marlo moved away to stand on a knoll from where he had a good view of the surrounding countryside. Then they waited.

Letta heard them before she saw them. Her ragtag band of scholars. Ten children ranging in age from seven to almost twelve. It worried her that they had come together, that they were making noise. She would have to speak to them again about how important it was that they be careful. These children came from the bravest people in Ark, people who were prepared to risk and lose everything so their children could learn to speak properly. Within minutes, the youngsters were sitting in front of her, eyes wide, waiting to hear what she had to say. She cleared her throat and began. Im so happy you could all come this afternoon.

The wind rushed in across the fields, and she struggled to be heard over its eerie whine. It was the raw end of the second month, when the earth is still cold. Thaddeus, one of her youngest students, looked at her with wide blue eyes and put his hand up. In his other hand he held a daisy, its head squashed in his warm palm.

Letta, what call this f-flower?

He stumbled over the last word, a non-List word that Letta had only recently taught him. She had a sudden intense memory of picking daisies with Benjamin when she wasnt much older than Thaddeus.

Daisies symbolize new beginnings, Benjamin had said. She hoped it was true.

Its a daisy, Letta said.

Daisies in February. The Melting had left the climate in chaos, and nature was still acting strangely. Can you tell me the names of any other flowers that we learned?

The small boys forehead creased as he struggled to remember.

Primrose, daff-o-dil, buttercup

Excellent, Thaddeus, she said.

He was such a clever boy. He should be in a proper school, she thought, remembering her own days in Mrs. Truckles classroom, where they had learned John Noas words, the list of seven hundred words allowed in Ark. They didnt know at the time that they would be the last children in Ark to be offered seven hundred words. After Letta graduated, children were given only five hundred words. And now even that school had closed.

Letta and the Creators did their best to teach those who wanted to learn, though it meant teaching them in the open air, in desolate spots where they wouldnt be discovered. People had taken to calling these gatherings hedge schools, since they often took shelter under bushes and trees. More parents were trying to send their children, even though discovery would mean death. Letta glanced behind her to where Marlo stood on guard, scanning the countryside.