Silent One

By Andy Young

The Everi, derisively known as fairies, are a people on the edge: despised or feared by other races, poised precariously between the mundane and the magical, between the People and the Enemy. Born into slavery, orphaned like all her Everi sisters, Sarah is forced on a journey that takes her from one edge to another: from the wild lands to the cities, from the clutches of the Enemy to the safety of the convent, from a life of lowly servitude to the very highest echelons of the world she knows, where she challenges the Queen. Throughout it all she struggles with the meaning of what it is to be Everi: stubborn and proud, even in poverty, bound to the People by passion and necessity, and bound by the needs of their daughters, who the Everi cannot raise themselves.
Sarah. A child and a sister, a lover and a wife, a mother and a queen. Through trials that threaten to break her body and her mind, she rises to become a leader who imagines a new kind of future for the Everi, where they are in the middle instead of on the edges, where they are respected and honored. To achieve her dream she will have to fight in every way she can, make allies out of antagonists, and defeat the Enemy that has dogged her whole life- an Enemy who threatens to destroy everything she has achieved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Young
• Release date: Sep 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301650132

Andy Young

Andy is a husband, father, writer, teacher, hiker, cyclist, artist, gardener, and musician. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with his wife, two kids, dog, cat, snake, chickens, and fish.

Book preview

Part 1: Sarah

Chapter 1

Sarah still had to go and collect firewood, even though there was at least an even chance at this point that she would end up dead.

Yeah, said Rebecca, a nice little sting in her voice, and can you imagine how pissed off mom would be if you came back dead? You'd really be in for it then.

Funny, said Sarah, neither happy or sad.

All around was The Delta: veined with slow, brown branches of the river, covered with giant, twisted cottonwood trees growing from stretches of sand and clumpy grass. All the good firewood anywhere close had long since been collected. The hills, half a day's walk from Sarah's house, had plenty of wood; the people who went to gather it only went in groups, and were dying just the same. Nobody was gathering firewood anymore except Sarah. Her mom would brag about this later, at the market or the fair- that their house still had firewood when all the others had none. The other women would know it was Sarah doing the work, braving the hills to get wood, her mother's devoted servant.

But she wasn't braving the hills, because she'd discovered a trick. Just a few miles from her home was another family's cabin, built on piers along the sandy bank of a thin tributary, unoccupied now thanks to the work of the Enemy. Sarah and her family had barely known the people who'd lived there- a man, his wife, three sons- and now their house was abandoned, a great hole in the roof where the Darkness had dropped in to get them. The family hadn't been smart enough to cut down that beautiful tree overhanging their hovel, a perfect gateway for the Enemy to attack, but they had been industrious enough to gather a lot of firewood, which they didn't need anymore. Sarah had been raiding their woodpile for weeks.

Once at the house, she went in again to look before collecting wood. She couldn't help it, the vision inside was so captivating and horrible. The hole in the roof let in sunshine- something the insides of their windowless houses usually never saw- a lovely dappled green light that filled the single large room. Leaves, not many, covered a low table, and a few sets of footprints from some four-legged scavenger went in and out the door. The smell inside was awful, and the corpse was still there, the youngest son, sitting upright in the corner, rotting. The knife in his chest had slipped out of the decaying flesh and fallen to the ground by his leg. She picked it up gently with her fingertips, then carried it outside to wash off in the muddy water of the stream. In the woodpile she found a small stick split halfway down its length; she jammed the knife into this makeshift sheath and tucked it into the thick rope that kept her tunic from falling open, right next to Rebecca. Then she went back to visit the boy.

He stinks, she said to Rebecca, who refused to answer. She looked closely, breathing through her nose. You stink, she said, her lavender eyes meeting his. His were gray and shriveled, sunken deep into the sockets. It happened that you stink was the only thing he had said to her the one time their families had met, walking on the wide road that led to town last spring. The older boys had refused to talk to her at all, but the youngest had offered just that one precious phrase.

You stink now more than I ever did, said Sarah, backing away to the door for a few fresh breaths. She listened to the flies buzz, swatting away the ones who came too close. But you're lucky to be dead. She wondered if he'd had to kill himself or if someone else had done it for him.

Probably his dad, said Rebecca. His dad seemed nice enough. But the knife had been left behind, so nobody else had been able to die in time. The Enemy got them.

She left the house, went out to the woodpile. She shook each piece carefully, dislodging spiders and other guests, and set them aside in a new pile. Eventually she had as much as she could carry against her chest and still see over the top. One day's wood at best, more likely one meal's worth, and she'd be back out here collecting again tomorrow.

Halfway home she heard the Enemy. The Diggers made a sound, a kind of scraping, slithering noise that went straight to the spine and turned your blood cold the moment you realized what it was. Sarah had only heard it once before, a year earlier, when the Diggers had come through the Delta in the night. Her family had retreated to the center of their cabin, sitting on the floor, watching the door and the forest outside shining whitely under a full moon. She remembered everyone's breathing, and how thankful she was that she'd been able to huddle against her brother, the only person in the family who would let her get so close. She remembered the gleam of the knife in her father's hand as he waited to see if the Enemy would pass them by or if he would have to start killing his family to spare them. She remembered wondering if she would have time to kill herself when he was done, because nobody bothered to kill their servant when they were too busy killing themselves and the rest of the family. She'd heard the story of a family who pushed their Fairy daughter out the doorway to save themselves. Her brother told her about it, and then when she'd cried said it wasn't true. But her parents had heard the same story from someone else; Sarah suspected it was true, so she had tried as hard as she could to keep her breathing quiet and not whimper with fear as she waited with her family. Hopefully they wouldn't remember she was there. That night the Enemy had passed them by.

Run! yelled Rebecca.

Even in broad daylight, with the sun out and a breeze in the trees, hearing the Diggers inspired instant terror. Sarah started to run and fell right away, firewood flying this way and that. Her mother would be furious if she returned home with nothing. For a moment Sarah pictured herself staying there, on her hands and knees in the Delta sand, in a circle of scattered wood, doing nothing until the Enemy came and took her. For another moment she imagined taking the knife from her waist and stabbing herself in the heart. She blinked and shook her head, trying to dislodge both visions, and started to collect the wood, one piece out of four slipping out of her trembling fingers. She managed to get most of it into a haphazard mass too high for her too see over, but she started for home anyway. She craned her head sideways to see, walking as fast as she could without stumbling, and still pieces of wood fell. She started to cry; each time a piece fell she cried a little harder, knowing how much trouble she was going to be in when she got home if she didn't have enough. But the Diggers were getting closer, and she couldn't stop anymore.

At home she saw that her family wasn't going to need the wood. They were leaving for good, carrying a few bags on their backs; her mother, brother, father and uncle were already a hundred yards down the road, almost out of sight among the trees. Only her brother David was looking back, watching for her.

Mom! he shouted. It's Sarah! He ran back to her, ignoring the shouts of the others not to waste time. Sarah stood where she was and watched him come, though the sound of the Diggers was now all around them, echoing among the trees, coming from everywhere and nowhere. David was halfway to her when her father started to follow, leaving his sack by the side of the road.

Just drop it, Sarah, said David when he reached her. We're running away to the town. Everybody is. She didn't answer; just watched the distant figures of her mother and her uncle, both of them walking away. David reached out and grabbed one of the sticks in the woodpile, tugging gently; Sarah slowly released her hands and let the wood tumble to the ground.

We need to go, said her father, standing a few yards down the road. Now!

Come on, said David, reaching out his hand. Sarah took it and they walked, then jogged, then ran down the road behind their father, until they caught up with their mother and uncle.

The dishes, Sarah, said her mother, handing Sarah one of the bundles she was carrying. The heavy, glazed pottery was her mother's most prized possession, the most expensive thing in their mud and stone home where everyone slept wrapped in blankets on the floor. Usually kept tied securely and wrapped in cloth, the dishes emerged anytime a guest came to eat, thus securing for Sarah's family a small portion of what little prestige there was in the Delta to go around.

I swear by the rocks and trees, Sarah, we won't eat off the ground, said her mother.

We'll not eat anything, since we're out of food, said David, breathing heavily. We can sell those things for a lot of food. Their mother slapped him, twice, before turning her back and continuing down the road. Everyone followed silently: Sarah carrying the dishes, David his bundle, their father more bundles still, and their uncle an old sword and a rough wooden box bound with rope.

They walked a mile or more to one of the few bridges in the Delta, an arched stone edifice in poor repair that spanned a wide, swiftly moving stretch of the river, one of the largest channels. The bridge seemed safe enough, but at the far end was a cart, apparently abandoned.

That's Meggie's cart, said their father. Something's happened to her.

Maybe the bridge is being watched, said David. Sarah looked around at the trees, which grew close to the road here and drooped way out over the river, fingers clawing at the air above the water. She strained her ears for any sign of the Enemy, but for the moment there was nothing but leaves rattling in the breeze. There were plenty of trees around to harbor Darkness, but the branches were open and easily visible, and looked clear enough.

Check out the cart, Sarah, said her mother. If Meggie is gone then there might be something we can use. Sarah put down the dishes, setting them carefully just off the road, and headed out across the bridge. The water moved smooth and soundless underneath her, muddy and red. She looked for any footprints on the bridge that weren't human, but the layers of dust and dried mud covering the paving stones showed only cart tracks, shoe prints, and bare feet. Sarah walked fast, doing what she was told, trying to hide her fear, though by the time she got to the opposite side of the river she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

She refused to glance back at her family, giving her attention to the cart instead. It seemed to be in good shape, with sound wheels and long front handles firmly attached. A broken box was on the ground; perhaps it fell when the cart stopped. It was full of apples, wrinkled and bruised. Sarah jumped up to the side of the cart and looked over the slats. There was little to see: a small leather bag, a few big lengths of cloth that could be used as tunics, and, disturbingly, a single gleaming Fairy wing, shining like a dragonfly's, with torn shreds of shiny pink muscle still attached to the root. Sarah gasped, grabbed for the small leather bag, then fell down into the dirt, wanting to vomit. She's dead, said Rebecca, still tucked next to the knife at Sarah's waist. Not taken. She must be dead. Sarah nodded, hoping it was true. The rest of Meggie's servant girl was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Meggie. Sarah opened the bag and saw to her relief that it held a few gold and silver coins, a real prize. She wouldn't have to stay and look for anything else in the cart. She got up and bolted back across the bridge.

Good girl, said her mother, when she saw what was in the bag.

Any sign of Meggie? asked her father. Meggie had been an old woman, with gray hair and a cane.

Sarah shook her head.

Anything else in the cart? asked David, but Sarah didn't answer.

Whatever got them came from in front of us, said their father, shaking his head. We can't trust this road. Meggie's man had a boat, before he died. We can head over to her place and see if it's there.

Their mother nodded. Fine. We can row the boat over to the village.

If the boat is still there, said David, but he backed away before their mother could slap him.

They turned away from the bridge and headed to Meggie's house, the path just barely passable for a cart but easy enough on foot. They had crossed a thin stream, little more than a muddy trickle, when they heard the insidious slither of the Diggers again, somewhere far off on their left.

That's not where we're going, said their father. This road goes straight and right. We'll keep heading for Meggie's.

Maybe Meggie will be there, said David. Maybe that wasn't her cart.

Their father shook his head, paused, then nodded. Maybe. Let's keep moving.

I bet the Diggers will cross the river, said David. I bet they already have.

Shut up, boy, said their mother.

Meggie's cabin, a driftwood lean-to perched crookedly on thin stilts, was abandoned. They sent Sarah inside to check, but it was empty. The sound of the Diggers was louder but still comfortably far away; what was much closer was the sound of the sea, lapping against rocks behind a thick stand of salt cottonwood and cedar behind Meggie's house. They pushed their way through the copse of trees to the beach. The sun had turned far to the west, still a couple of hours from setting. A ragged line of large stones were stacked in the shallows, creating a sheltered pool where a small wooden boat rocked gently.

Get the boat, Sarah, said her mother. Sarah put the dishes down in the sand without hesitation and plunged into the water. She couldn't swim, and it was deeper than she thought; she could only just get her toes into the sand with her chin above the surface. Even the mild waves in the shelter behind the breakwater covered her face over and over again; before she could get to the boat she lost her toehold and spiraled away like a leaf, fetching up on the stones of the breakwater. She sputtered, coughed, and wiped the hair off her face. Her family was watching. She leaped as far as she could into the waves, landing a few feet short of the boat. She kicked and reached out a hand, but the current pushed her away again. This time she came at the breakwater backwards, head over heels, and surfaced bleeding from a gash above her ear, scrabbling at the slippery rocks. Much to her surprise her whole family was in the water to their waists, Uncle Joss gripping the boat, David climbing in. Before she could fantasize that they had come to help she heard what drove them in- the sound of Diggers in the forest, close enough that she could hear them over the sound of the waves.

Get the rope, Sarah, yelled her mother, now in the boat beside the dishes. The boat wasn't tied down; instead the rope from the stern was coiled under a pile of heavy rocks on the breakwater. Sarah pushed the rocks off and flung the rope to David, and immediately the current turned the boat and pushed it to the inlet. A wave pushed it back, then sucked it forward, and then they were in the open water. Sarah stood on the end of the breakwater, watching them go.

Come on, Sarah! cried David, reaching out his hand. Jump!

She jumped and went under, and only a lucky current from the water flowing out of the cove pushed her to the boat faster than it pushed the boat away. She was senseless and drowning, but David caught her hair; she reached out desperately and took his arm so he could haul her in. Once safely in the boat she collapsed to the bottom on her hand and knees, retching.

Help your uncle row, said her mother.

Sarah nodded, gagged, spat a gush of salty water onto the crusty boards, then made her unsteady way to the bow where Uncle Joss was holding out a paddle. She had to straddle the edge of the boat to get her oar into the water, perched high, though everyone else crouched low in the unsteady boat. Uncle Joss rowed with long, strong movements; Sarah, determined to show her strength, tried to match him stroke for stroke, dipping her oar as deep as she could even though she was on the verge of falling in.

They left shore from a tricky place along the Delta, though they didn't know it. One of the largest branches of the great river emptied into the sea several miles northwest of Meggie's hut, at the head of a large inlet; because of this a fierce current only a few dozen yards offshore led straight out to the sea. Meggie's husband, a fisherman who'd died three years before, knew that one had to hug the rocky shore for a full mile before letting a boat get out into deeper water, but there was no way either Sarah or her uncle could have known that, and even if they had they had only the vaguest control over the direction of the boat, which was willful and unwieldy. They'd hoped to be rounding the point close to the village before sunset; instead night found them three miles or more from the shore, doing their best to keep the nose of the boat pointed north towards the village even as the current swept them further east under thousands of gleaming stars. David fell asleep at their parent's feet; her mother and father sat on the bench in the middle of the boat, eyes open even if their minds were numb, staring back towards the invisible shore. At some point Uncle Joss stopped rowing and slid down against the side of the boat, eyes closed, exhausted. Only Sarah kept rowing weakly, her oar barely dipping into the water. The boat turned and turned in slow circles through the night while the current pushed them further and further away from their home.

Chapter 2

During the night the current shifted south; in the morning they ran aground on a gravelly beach. They were on an island, one of hundreds of that rose from rocky shores to jagged peaks, rising from the sea in a long chain running north to south a dozen miles from the mainland. This line of islands ran for nearly two hundred miles, sheltering most of the eastern shore of the continent from the full fury of the great sea. The islands were rarely visited even by the fisherfolk; rumor was they had little to offer the hungry but were free of the Enemy. Sarah's father, less tired than Uncle Joss, took the sword and walked ashore, investigated the beach briefly, then went into the thick pine woods that formed a tall, evergreen wall behind a tumbled layer of driftwood and dry seaweed. Sarah was forced out of the boat to stand beside it in the water, keeping it steady near the shore. In less than an hour her father was back; there was no sign of the Enemy.

The dishes, Sarah, said her mother as they got out of the boat.

I've got to piss, said David; he jogged across the gravel into the trees. Sarah took the dishes from her mother, arms aching from the rowing, her throat parched, her head pounding. She could not remember when she had finally given up paddling and collapsed backwards into the boat to sleep.

I could have fallen into the water, she whispered to Rebecca, after she'd just managed to lay the dishes gently down before falling to her knees in the sand. It would have been easier.

But you didn't, Rebecca replied. And you'd be dead if you had. Sarah nodded and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Your father is going to try and find some food, and I'll not have us eat like animals. Let's set some kind of table.

I have to pee, said Sarah. She was watching David, who was emerging from the forest. He had a big stick in his hand which he whacked on the ground, little pieces of gravel flying here and there.

You can pee when the table is set, her mother snapped, smacking her on the head. We'll live like People, by the trees and stones, or we'll not live at all.

Sarah stood quickly and started untying the ropes around the dishes, which seemed to take forever. Her temples were throbbing.

At least your head already hurts, said Rebecca. Couldn't even feel mom's hand.

They dragged heavy logs down the beach and set them in a rough square; once Sarah finally got the plates and cups unwrapped she set them carefully in front of the makeshift benches, then watched her mother inspect her work. It was Sarah's habit to count how many times her mother adjusted the position of a plate or a cup, and a matter of pride if it was less than five.

Seven, said Rebecca. Not so good.

Well, we're on a beach, said Sarah, not quietly enough.

What? asked her mother, glaring.

I have to go, said Sarah, crossing her legs a little and bending over.

Go then. Don't be too long. Your father might find something you have to cook.

Watch out for the Enemy, said David, his eyes wide.

Shut up, said their mother. Father said there was nothing.

I think I heard Diggers, said David, hitting his stick on a large driftwood log.

Get over here, David, said their mother, and Sarah knew he was about to get slapped. She hurried in to the forest.

It was surprisingly dark and cool; the sun hadn't cleared the peaks to the east yet, and the sky was nearly invisible amid the tangle of branches and evergreen needles above her head. An impressive tumble of bulky logs and trunks lined the edge of the forest, detritus of storms, and Sarah had to climb over or slide under several before the ground opened up enough to walk easily. The light was gray and pale, and the carpet of old pine needles felt good on her feet. She stopped and listened, thinking on David's warning about the Diggers, but he was just trying to scare her. Probably. Hopefully. She really had to pee, but forced herself to walk for several minutes before squatting down between a pair of tall pines. She'd chosen the spot poorly- it felt sheltered enough but there was a bit of a slope; warm urine pooled around the toes of her left foot, but she was too tired to bother stopping and finding a different place.

She was rubbing her foot in the some dirt to clean it off, dirt black as midnight, when David spoke from behind her.

That's gross, he said, loudly, trying to startle her. Sarah was startled, but she managed not to jump or scream.

What's gross is watching people pee, she said, sticking out her tongue.

You're not People, you're a Fairy, said David, coming closer. He was gripping his stick. Did you hear the Diggers?

There's no Diggers, said Sarah firmly.

I heard them, said David. He kicked some dirt onto the spot where she'd peed.

Did not, said Sarah.

They were the same age, thirteen, though she was only half his height. Her Fairy mother had left her with their mother and father just two weeks after David was born.

Leave me alone, David, she said. He patted her head, then ran his fingers through her long hair. This had been happening more and more lately.

You're ugly, he said. I hate your hair. David's hair was nearly black and arrow straight, the same as everyone else in their family. Everyone but Sarah. Hers was reddish-blond laced with green, somewhat curly, and usually tangled.

Just go away, she sighed, but she knew he wouldn't. He smiled and tugged at the top of her tunic. The fabric was loose and fell off her shoulder easily, exposing her breasts, a slightly noticeable pair of bumps on her chest.

Stop, she said, pushing at his hand.

You have to let me. I'll tell mom if you don't. He dropped his stick and started massaging her chest, one hand on each breast, mechanically. Sarah stood there, the dutiful servant, and wondered if she would really get in trouble if he told their mom she wouldn't let him touch her chest.

Probably, said Rebecca.

Maybe when you get your magic you'll be a Buzzer, said David, his eyes watching his hands. Then we could do it with each other and you'll drive me crazy.

You can't do it with your sister, said Sarah. She stared straight ahead, her eyes on the knot at David's waist. Unlike Sarah's simple sack of a tunic, David was wearing a two-piece outfit, a shirt and a pair of loose pants held up with rope.

"I'm doing this with my sister," he said, his hands still working.

"You're doing this to your sister," said Sarah.

David laughed at this little joke, and stopped rubbing. Sarah waited until she was sure he was done, then pulled her tunic back up. David picked up the stick and beat a tree absentmindedly. When you're a Buzzer you won't be able to help it. You'll have to do it with me.

No I won't, said Sarah. When I get my magic I'll move into the hills with the Fairies and never do it with you or anybody else. She knew not to walk away yet, in case he decided to follow. She stood her ground and watched him, waiting for him to get bored. This was the third time now that he'd played with her breasts, and she knew he'd go away eventually. He always had before.

Fine, said David. You're my sister, anyway. We can't do it together. Except you're not my sister because you're a Fairy. David reached back and threw the stick far into the woods, or he meant to. Instead it caromed off a tree just six feet away and landed with a thump. Sarah giggled, and David glared at her. His eyes strayed to her chest, and she knew he was thinking about going after her again. She became a statue, as dull as possible. Race you back to the boat, he said, and he took off.

Sarah thought about running, but knew she couldn't beat David with all those giant tree trunks and other debris in the way. Instead she walked the other direction, a little further into the woods, until her fear of the Diggers got the better of her and she turned back towards the beach.

But you won't be a Buzzer, said Rebecca. Not ever.

What David didn't know, what nobody but Sarah or Rebecca knew, was that she already had her magic. She'd had it for several months, though it was only in the last few weeks she realized what was happening. She hadn't been sure, really and truly sure, until a few days earlier when she had crept up on a deer grazing near her secret firewood cache. She'd been testing her new ability, trying to see how close she could get to the deer before scaring it away. The deer hadn't run until Sarah finally touched it with her hand. Up until that moment, it had no idea she was there.

She could have used her magic to keep David from following her when she went to pee, but she had to be concentrating for it to really work; all she'd been thinking about was peeing. She concentrated now, letting the silence of the forest and the air and the quiet places between the branches and the stones flow into her arms and legs. She took a few steps- nothing. Then she ran a few more, and her feet made no sound at all on the forest floor. She scratched her fingernails silently down the bark of a tree, then picked up David's abandoned branch. She broke it again and again until it was nothing but a pile of inch-long twigs at her feet. Each time she snapped the branch there was no noise, and each twig she dropped at her feet hit the ground soundlessly.

Don't tell him, said Rebecca.

Never, said Sarah, though no noise at all came from her mouth. I'm never telling anyone. She let the silence fall away from her and swirl back into the spaces between the trees. She took a deep breath to shout, then thought about Diggers and Darkness, and the great oppressive mass of trees surrounding her. Never, she whispered. She turned back toward the beach.

It was turtle eggs for a midday meal, dug up from the sand not too far away from their landing spot. They ate them raw, though their mother went to the effort to poke a delicate hole in each egg so as to not get any of the yolk on her clothes. Uncle Joss ate nothing; he hadn't left the beach even to go to the bathroom, and had pissed in his clothes. He was sitting on one of the logs their mother had dragged over, his back to everyone. Their father licked his fingers as he polished off the last of an egg. Here, Sarah, he said. I'm good, though I wouldn't mind an egg or two more. These are yours. He carried the last two eggs over to where she was sitting, watching the others eat. You're lucky Joss isn't eating or you'd have to go find some eggs yourself, he said, laughing gently. Sarah carefully worked the egg as her mother had, caring little about making a mess but wanting to be sure she didn't miss a drop of food.

We can't go back, he said to them all, sitting down on the log. The village is gone. The Enemy has everything. We'll have to go further down the channel and find a new place.

Don't be stupid, said their mother. You don't know the village is gone. Everyone was going there, and they have the stockade.

Not enough protection. It's gone.

I'll not have us just going off into the wild.

Everywhere is wild now. We can't go back.

We have to go back.

I say we go and find a new place, said David.

Shut up, boy, said their mother. You have nothing to say here.

There was a long silence, except for Sarah trying to quietly slurp everything out of one of the eggs.

What about you, Joss? said their dad. Anything to say? Joss? What do you think? Go back to the village that isn't there or try to find a new place?

Stop it, said their mother. Uncle Joss hadn't said a word to anyone since he turned up at their door four days earlier without his wife, daughter, or their Fairy daughter. His eyes were wide and empty, and he had a handful of his wife's hair in his fist that he didn't let go of for two days.

Hey, Joss, help us out here, said their father. He picked up a few pebbles from the beach and threw them at Joss' back. Give me some advice, brother. He tossed more pebbles and sighed. You stupid shit, Joss, get over it and help us out. But Joss just sat.

In the morning we'll go back to the village, said their mother.

The hell we will.

I don't think the current will even let us go back, said David, leaping up from the log to avoid getting cuffed. He went to the shore and started trying to skip rocks.

Clean up the dishes, Sarah, said their mother. And get them packed.

They slept, or tried to, huddled together on the beach inside the ring of logs, Sarah sleeping against David. The sand was in her clothes and the pounding surf was a constant distraction, but it had been years since she'd been able to lie down next to anyone. At home the family slept at one end of the house, close to the fire pit, and she by herself on the other. Tonight that protocol seemed forgotten, and she got as close as she could, though she didn't want her chest touching him and didn't want to crush her wings either. She settled for keeping her legs against his back. Rebecca she kept tight against her chest.

Chapter 3

The morning brought fresh counsel: their father found a dismembered arm in the water, rolling in and out from the shore with the waves. It was a man's arm, hairy and strong, severed neatly by some weapon a few inches from the shoulder. The same current that forced them to the island had brought it, an ominous sign of whatever had befallen those left behind on the mainland.

We can go south, said their father. Follow the islands. Find a place to settle well away from here.

It doesn't mean anything, said their mother, who had refused to look at the arm until their father had held it under her chin.

Everything is gone.

Everyone is at the village. They have the stockade.

They're all dead, Cassie.

I won't have us just rowing from island to island. We can stay here and wait until the Enemy is gone.

So their mother sat in the sand while their father and Sarah packed the boat, only getting up after he'd lifted the carefully wrapped bundle of dishes from her arms. She followed wordlessly to the boat and sat in silence while Joss and Sarah pushed it out into the sea.

Push her in deep, Joss, said their father. Get your ass wet so we don't have to smell you.

Sarah's arms still ached from the day before, but soon she and Uncle Joss formed a silent conspiracy to spare their muscles. The southern current was so swift that they only had to paddle enough to keep the boat pointed in the right direction; for much of the day they dipped their oars in and out but hardly pulled. The only real work was in the late afternoon, when they realized that they might not make the next island by evening. They started rowing for real, though none of the silent passengers seemed to notice the change. They made it to the beach just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately there was no time to hunt or gather food; everyone went to sleep hungry. In the morning their father tried fishing with a makeshift spear, beside a tide pool nestled among jagged rocks. After dozens of failed throws and an hour of chasing the stick through the water before it could float away, he finally speared a big fish, then almost drowned trying to bring the thrashing thing to the beach. They ate it raw, brushing off the sand as they went, with Sarah scavenging what she could from what they discarded, which was nearly nothing. They spent one more night on the island before pushing back into the sea.

That became their plan, for lack of anything better, for days on end. In the mornings they packed the boat and rowed out into the water. Sarah and Uncle Joss paddled enough to keep them on track, counting on the current to do most of the work. They did the best they could to make landfall with enough time to hunt for something to eat or to gather something if the hunting was poor, which was usually the case. They stuck to the islands; the mainland was always visible on their right- a pale blue line of mountains rising and falling- but for fear of the Enemy they never even considered going there. Sarah avoided even looking at it if she could. The fourth day out Uncle Joss started hunting, sometimes going with their father and other times going on his own. He was good, bringing in a boar one evening and a small deer another, though on the smaller islands they were still dependent on fish and turtle eggs. Sarah's mother maintained her silence, though she managed to keep Sarah busy setting up the camp every evening and packing the boat in the morning, fierce glances, angry pointing and the threat of a beating filling in for talking. She got religion one evening and started having David build tall piles of rocks and driftwood for the spirits. Building for the spirits was boy's work; he had to do it after dinner every day from then on, which gave Sarah a chance to run into the woods without David following her. She practiced her magic when she could; getting the silence to flow into her was becoming easier and easier.

For three weeks they island-hopped south. The current slackened somewhat, but Sarah and Joss were getting stronger so their pace stayed more or less the same. Periodically thunderstorms would roll in from the northwest. If they were still at sea they got soaked, though the sea itself remained calm. Just once they failed to make landfall before evening and spent half a moonless night in the boat until running ashore in the darkness, surprising everyone. Many nights they went without food, though this happened less and less as the weeks passed. Eventually an evening came where they were standing on a beach facing south, with nothing but open sea between them and the distant horizon. They had reached the southernmost tip of the island chain.

We'll have to cross over and see if there is a place we can settle now on the mainland, said their father. Tomorrow. Sarah looked at her mother, hoping she would argue with any plan involving the mainland, though there was no other plan to make. Her mother just stared at the dishes sitting in the sand until Sarah gathered them up and washed them.

They made the crossing the next day; it was not as hard as they thought it would be. Sarah and Uncle Joss had steeled themselves for fighting the current, but it was not nearly as strong now that the channel between the islands and the mainland had come to an end. Landfall was more difficult; the terrain was steep and rocky, tall waves crashing among massive rocks. The beach they landed on was nothing more than a sandy cove tucked among high cliffs, covered in driftwood. Uncle Joss and their father spent a whole day climbing the cliff to survey the top, returning after sunset with the news that the top was thickly forested, rocky and steep, with clear Digger trails visible in several places. They had no choice but to move on, though they had to spend the night under the shadow of the cliff. Sarah stayed as close to the water as she could, trying not to glance up, where she was sure the eyes of the Enemy were watching them. In the morning her father tried to talk with her mother and Joss about what to do next, though of course they said nothing. David was off along the water's edge, finding tiny crabs in the sand and throwing them out into the water.

We'll keep going, he said to Sarah, settling on the only captive audience he had who would speak to him. She was stacking the dishes and wrapping them up. There are villages on the coast ahead of us, the southern coast. What do you think?

It was so unexpected to be asked her opinion that Sarah almost forgot to answer. Ah, ok, she said at last, though she knew her mother thought all the stories of villages in the south were myths and legends. Sounds fine.

Her father nodded. Good. That will be the plan, then. There are Felines and Giants in those villages, Sarah, and Fairies too. You'll like it.

They had no alternative now but to camp on the mainland in the evenings, finding the most sheltered and secure coves they could to avoid the Enemy. The trip by sea was wholly different now. The steady current from the north was gone. They'd rounded the southeast tip of the continent, and were traveling west. There was nothing to the south except open sea; the boat rocked and swayed on high swells. Without the current behind them Sarah and Uncle Joss had to row constantly, and they were both exhausted by each day's end, Sarah with fierce, bleeding blisters on her hands. One evening the two of them were lying on the beach side by side, their arms numb; Sarah's mother had even set up camp by herself so Sarah could rest. Sarah lay in the sand, unconcerned about the grit in her clothes or the fleas biting her, when she realized Uncle Joss was crying, quiet sobs that shook his body. She reached out and touched his hand gently, and was surprised when he grabbed her hand in his, clutching it desperately. He still hadn't spoken, though sometimes at night by firelight she saw him with those strands of hair in his hands, gripping them and staring.

One night David turned to her in the dark, his mouth right next to her ear. I know where we're going, Sarah, he whispered, his voice barely audible above the waves. There are villages all over the south, with Giants and these big cats and People like us. Like me. There's even a city of Fairies like you, where they're in charge of everything. You'd be a princess there, Sarah, or a queen. His eyes were shining in the moonlight, and she could see he was smiling at her. Sarah fell asleep trying to imagine a city full of Fairies, Fairies who weren't servants. What would they do?

In the morning it all seemed impossible. She caught his eye and he leered at her, grabbing his crotch and sticking out his tongue. He'd failed to catch her alone since their first island stop. She was sure that everything he'd said about a Fairy city was just a lie to tease her.

But two days later she was rowing the boat next to Uncle Joss and heard her mother say, I won't have us living in a Fairy city. I won't work for Fairies. It was the first thing her mother had said since the day they'd seen the arm in the water, nearly a month ago.

The land was changing, and the air along with it. The carpet of tall pines they were used to seeing along the tops of the cliffs and covering the hills was gone, replaced at first by low trees with waxy leaves, then by a spiky covering of cacti, agave and other succulents. The air was getting dry and hot. They had to be more selective about their campsites, watching for clusters of trees that marked where springs or thin streams emptied into the sea. Some evenings they camped without a protective cliff between themselves and the mainland, but there was no sign of the Enemy anymore. They started to see up ahead a great rocky promontory sticking out from the shore, a giant wedge of mountain protruding into the sea. It was smooth and rounded on the top, sloping gently into arid foothills behind it, but where it met the sea it plunged down in a single cliff nearly two thousand feet tall. That cliff is at the mouth of the great fjord, said their father, speaking to Sarah and David. Beyond that the sea goes into the land for miles and miles to the mouth of a river, but we won't want to go that way. We'll want to cross the mouth of the fjord and keep going west to the villages. Sarah looked at their mother, who was shaking her head, her mouth tight, but she said nothing.

There's a castle on top of the cliff, said David. A fortress of warriors who watch the sea and fight the Enemy.

Their father nodded. I've heard that, though I'd think we'd see such a castle even from this far away.

They'll help us, said David. They will. Their father didn't say anything else.

They reached the base of the cliff two days later, their campsite a skinny band of sand at the bottom of one of the stony faces. It was impossible to hunt or fish, so they went without a meal. The next morning they started rowing around the cliff, but it was more than a day's journey; when night fell there was no place to go, nothing but towering waves crashing against sheer faces. Sarah and Joss rowed into the night, working their way out to sea in fear of the rocks until they couldn't hear anything but the lapping of water on the side of the boat; there they curled up beside each other in the bow and slept. In the morning they resumed rowing under a grim, gray sky; the great cliff was a gray silhouette behind them; no other land was visible anywhere.

We've gone into the mouth of the fjord, said their father. But too far out to sea. Turn the boat so the cliff is on our right and we'll get to the other side of the fjord.

You don't know that, said David. Not for sure. He'd been sullen and silent for days.

Shut up, boy. Sarah heard a slap of water on the side of the boat. A breeze had picked up and the sea was getting choppy.

You don't know anything, yelled David.

I know I can throw you out of this boat, said their father. Shut the hell up. Sarah! Joss! Turn the boat.

Don't paddle, Sarah, their mother croaked. Everyone turned to look. Don't paddle one little bit.

Sarah's father sighed and rolled his eyes. Now you speak? And all you have to say is stop paddling? Turn the boat and let's get going.

Their mom stood suddenly, rocking the boat wildly, and pushed their father over the side. He grabbed at her arms but missed and fell into the sea. The sudden change of weight sent their mom stumbling backwards, nearly off the other side of the boat. Their dad came up sputtering.

What the fuck, woman? he yelled, then coughed as a wave splashed off the side of the boat into his face.

I think a storm is coming, said David, looking at the clouds. The wind had picked up more, and the clouds on their left were an ominous dark blue. Their mother was on her knees where their father had grabbed the side of the boat, trying to peel his fingers off. Joss leaned over and grabbed her around the waist, hauling her backwards. She screamed and thrashed, trying to kick their dad's fingers, but he hauled himself in, along with a surge of water that soaked everyone. David looked enchanted by their soaked father and screaming mother, watching them both with wide, excited eyes, waiting to see what would happen next. Sarah retreated to the tip of the bow, perched precariously on the edge, as the boat rocked more and more.

But David was disappointed. Their father sat on the bench in the middle of the boat, panting; their mother stopped screaming and kicking. Joss let her go; she pushed herself away from their father to the stern of the boat, her dress soaked. I won't have us working for Fairies, she said.

I'm not going to work for any Fairies, said their father. But we can't just drown.

We can go back.

Don't be stupid. There is nothing to go back to.

Maybe we should go back to the cliff, said David, foolishly offering more unwanted advice. Their mother lunged forward to slap him, but she slipped and ended up laying in the water pooled on the bottom of the boat.

I thought that's what you wanted! he shouted at her.

Hush, David, said their father, looking towards the cliff. It was invisible now, obscured by the spray the wind was kicking up from the sea. There is a storm coming, that's for sure. The cliff will be too dangerous. Turn the boat and start paddling, like I said. We'll need to make land before the storm hits.

But it was no longer clear which way the cliff lay from where they were, or how much the boat might have spun while they argued. Joss and Sarah tried to turn the boat, but they were paddling against each other so the boat stayed straight. They both switched directions, again fighting each other, until Sarah's dad angrily snatched the paddle from her and threw it into the sea, where it disappeared among the choppy waves.

That was stupid, said David; their dad punched him in the stomach, sending him coughing and gasping to the floor of the boat. Their mother took David's spot on the side, nodding her head and mumbling something to herself.

Paddle, Joss, said their father, his voice barely audible in the increasing wind. Just fucking paddle.

There was not much Joss could do. Big waves came, and bigger ones after those; stretches of quiet were followed by periods of increasing fury. The boat twisted and pitched one way and another; it faced the waves and tried to flip over backwards, then turned to the side and nearly rolled over. It was impossible for Sarah to tell if the wind was pushing them over the water, perhaps back to the cliffs where they would be smashed against the rocks, or if they were not moving at all except up and down with the passing waves. Joss and her father tried again and again to bail the boat, splashing the water out with their hands, but their efforts were meaningless against the might of the waves. The boat would pitch to the side enough so nearly all the water ran out, and then a few seconds later a fresh wave would fill it so full it seemed it had no choice but to sink. Again and again Sarah found her place at the bow overwhelmed, the water trying to push her out of the boat; only Joss' grip on her ankle keeping her inside. She pulled Rebecca from her waistband and gripped her, eyes shut against the storm.

Then the largest wave yet came, a hill of dark water; the boat rose up and flipped end over end, the bow up into the air like a catapult, firing Sarah and Joss into the tumultuous water. He lost his grip on her ankle. The boat remained like that for a second, pointing up into the sky, before twisting and falling back to the water upside down. The roil