8
Once every two weeks, a steam train chugs through Martindale dropping off supplies. It carries a limited number of passengers to the city and back as well but people are not encouraged to move around. It is an expensive and rare privilege. I have only travelled by train twice, only once officially. On the other occasion Opie and I sneaked aboard, hiding among the bags of grain and piles of fruit in one of the cabins at the back. We were young and silly and luckily didn’t get caught; the potential penalty for being found is something not worth thinking about.
Both journeys were uncomfortable, yet somehow thrilling too. The ability to be somewhere so different to my village, within such a short space of time, was something almost too hard to get my head around. Mum said travelling was something she took for granted as a child. For those my age, unless we walk, it is the only way of getting outside Martindale. Perhaps that’s why the gully became so important to me?
This train is completely different to the service ones that go through Martindale. Instead of the noise and the heat, it glides effortlessly and silently along the tracks to a degree that, if it wasn’t for the windows, I wouldn’t even know we were moving. We have the other Offerings to pick up and stop at a town a little further south to collect an Elite. The crowds are thicker than they were in Martindale; masses of people are pointing, waving and cheering.
After the Elite says his goodbyes, we sit together in silence. I try to stop myself peering at the grey-black hue of his thinkwatch, with the faint outline of a crown on it. He takes some fruit from the selection of food left for us but neither of us knows what to say to the other. He stares longingly out of the window and I wonder if he has left someone behind. I realise we are perhaps the only people who can understand each other, the mixed feelings of being chosen to serve our King, leaving behind everything and everyone we have ever known.
Although we never hear anything official about what happens to our Offerings, there are always rumours. Someone’s cousin knows somebody who lives in a city who heard from a Kingsman and so on. Of course there is no way of knowing for sure but it is sometimes fun to speculate. I’ve heard about an Offering who is supposedly now captain of the King’s army and another who is in charge of research and technology. Some have apparently been sent abroad to marry, to help rebuild the alliances smashed down by years of war. I wonder if that is to be my fate and begin to feel self-conscious in my dress.
We zigzag across the Realm but most of our pick-ups come from the cities where the crowds are beyond anything I have ever seen. Thousands have gathered to wave their Offerings goodbye as the carriage begins to fill up.
The two Elite girls come from the same place. One is wearing a beautiful silver dress and seems friendly, introducing herself as Jela. She has long, straight blonde hair and is naturally pretty, her high cheekbones framing large brown eyes that almost stare through you. The other, Pietra, says hello, but goes to sit at the back of the carriage. Her brown hair is pinned up and she is wearing a blue velvet dress covered with glittering jewels. She sits watching me with her arms crossed, as if weighing me up, but she says little else. Jela goes to sit with her.
Soon after, two boys – a Member and an Inter, dressed in a blue that matches his thinkwatch – step on together at another point. This is our year to provide a male Trog, who we collect from our final stop along with the last male Elite. These last two Offerings could not be more different. The Elite reminds me of Opie because of his build and hair colour – he is tall and handsome with a square, solid jaw and huge broad shoulders but his eyes lack the kindness that Opie’s have. Our Trog is thin and short, his thighs barely as wide as the Elite’s arms. His hair is brown and patchy and, despite us being the same age, he reminds me of Imp because of the dimples in his cheeks and the way he smiles.
They step onto the train together and instantly separate. The Elite heads towards the food, as the Trog, rubbing the front of his yellow thinkwatch, looks around at us all, before shuffling into the corner and sitting by himself. I notice a few of the others glancing in his direction but nobody says anything. The four Elites have drifted towards each other and are standing near the food table, eating and smiling.
We are all here now and ready to head to Windsor: four Elites, myself and another Member, an Inter and the Trog. Three girls and five boys. By the time we get to the castle and join with the Offerings from the other Realms, there will be thirty of us; fifteen boys and fifteen girls.
As I am adding up the numbers in my head, I catch the Trog’s eye and he smiles nervously before looking away. I glance towards the Elites and the newest one, who looks a little like Opie, stares me up and down before indicating for me to come over with a flick of his head.
For me there is no decision to make as I cross the carriage and sit next to the Trog instead. I feel the eyes of the others on me as I shake his hand and ask his name.
‘Wray,’ he tells me with the same nervous smile as before, still playing with his watch front. He doesn’t want to meet my eyes but I don’t mind as I tell him my name.
‘Is that like your hair?’ he asks, pointing to my silver streak.
‘Exactly.’
Wray asks where I come from but has, perhaps not surprisingly, never heard of Martindale. He tells me about life in the city, where he and his mother live in a partially rebuilt tower block. He tells me his mum lost the use of her legs a few years ago and never leaves the flat, which left him to look after her. Although school is held more often in the city, Wray has not been in years. He doesn’t say it but, from what I can tell, it looks as if he gives most of his rations to his mother. He says his younger sister will now be looking after her and that although he is sad and worried to be leaving, his mum told him the previous evening that his selection was the proudest moment of her life. He gulps hard, his throat bobbing as he speaks.
I ask if he wants some food but he says no, even though I can see the hunger in his eyes. I tell him I’ll get him something anyway and cross to the food table.
The bigger male Elite is eyeing me again. He is talking with the others and I overhear one of them calling him ‘Rush’. As I look across the food, I try to ignore him until he actually speaks, his voice deep and gravelly and any similarity to Opie immediately lost.
‘What are you doing hanging around with him?’ Rush asks, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
‘His name is Wray,’ I say, choosing two fruit buns from a tray. They are still slightly warm and I greedily smear butter across them.
‘He’s a Trog,’ Rush replies firmly, as the girl in the blue dress sniggers.
I spot a small plate of jam at the back and smile, thinking of my mother and Colt and the half-pot I’ve left for them at the back of the cupboard.
‘He comes from the same place you do,’ I reply, not looking behind me.
As I spread a generous helping of jam, I hear more laughing. ‘He’s nothing to do with me,’ Rush sneers. ‘He’s nothing at all.’
‘We’re all Offerings,’ I say, putting the buns on a plate and turning around to face him. ‘We’ve all been chosen and we’re all the same. You’re no better or worse than any of us.’
I see Rush’s face contort in anger, his top lip curling into a snarl. His eyebrow is twitching as he glances to Pietra, who is standing next to him, as if to confirm he has heard correctly. ‘All the same?’ he asks disbelievingly. ‘What are you? A Member? Why are you wasting your time with the likes of him? You should be with us.’
Pietra nods approvingly, her eyes flickering beyond me towards Wray.
I ignore them and return to the corner of the carriage, sitting next to Wray and handing him the bun. He must have heard what was being said but doesn’t rise to it, taking the food and biting into it hungrily.
‘Have you ever had one of these?’ I ask.
His reply is muffled as he tries to speak with his mouth full but he shakes his head. We both laugh as we eat. Wray gets through his entire bun before I am halfway done, so I let him finish mine off.
We watch the scenery flashing past the window; factories with smoke belching from the chimneys are interspersed with patches of grass and small towns, villages and hamlets. Most of all, we see rubble: piles of bricks, tiles, wood and masonry – all abandoned years before and never returned to.
‘I never realised there was so much carnage out here,’ I say as Wray points to what looks as if it was once a village that has been destroyed.
‘It’s a lot like this where I live,’ he replies. ‘Some places have been patched together but mainly we live in what’s left.’
I think about the house I won’t be returning to and, although it’s small, it is complete and provides adequate shelter. ‘Why don’t they rebuild these places properly?’ I ask.
Wray doesn’t reply instantly, instead we both focus on the final, flattened remnants of the village. ‘If they don’t repair things, it keeps us all remembering what might happen if we go to war again,’ he eventually says.
I think about his words and realise he is right. What better way to stop people rising up than by leaving them a permanent reminder of what happened the last time they did? For now, the King is popular but perhaps that won’t always be the case.
I want to ask Wray what happened at his Reckoning but it feels too personal a question. Maybe the Reckoning sensed that he wasn’t ready to leave home and wanted to continue looking after his mother, which is why it made him a Trog? It is hard to know exactly how it works, but he certainly isn’t stupid.
As we continue to watch through the window, I hear Rush’s voice behind us, shouting and sneering. ‘Oi, Trog-boy, come over here.’
Wray’s body tenses slightly but neither of us turns. Aside from the air swishing past the train, there is silence for a few seconds before his voice sounds again. ‘I’m talking to you, Trog-boy.’
I catch Wray’s eyes as he glances sideways at me. They are full of fright and I know this is the life he has led for years: intimidation and fear. I take his hand in mine and he is shaking. Remnants of some fruit fizzes past our heads and crashes into the window, the pulp and juice running down the glass as I realise it was meant for Wray’s head.
‘Don’t move,’ I whisper as I turn. I try to release his hand but his fingers are clasping at mine before he finally lets me go.
Rush is standing with more fruit in his hands ready to throw. When he realises he has my attention, he grins and puts the food down. ‘You may as well be Troggy filth like him if you’re going to spend all your time over there,’ he says, taking another moment to look me up and down.
At first I couldn’t figure it out but now I understand why he wants my attention. He thinks the gorgeous flowing dress is who I am; that I’m a naive child from the middle of nowhere and this is how I live. I struggle not to smile as he stands cockily. Pietra is at his side, staring at me.
‘His name is Wray,’ I say again. ‘My name is Silver. We’ve not done anything to you so why won’t you leave us alone?’
Rush’s eyes narrow. ‘Because I’m an Elite and he’s a Trog. I’ll do what I want.’
I nod gently as a smile spreads across his face. He thinks I am accepting that he can do what he wants, when really there is only one solution.
I stride towards Rush, who doesn’t move until I am within a metre or two. He glances sideways at Pietra, suddenly nervous, as if to ask what’s going on. By the time he fixes his attention back on me, it is too late. The dress and the hair are all well and good but the real me is the one who has grown up fighting and wrestling with Opie.
Rush doesn’t know what’s happening as I duck sideways and then hammer my elbow up under his ribs. With Opie, I would do this playfully and gently but now I do it as hard as I can. He doubles over automatically but I don’t give him a second, thudding the side of my hand into his windpipe as he lurches forward. I wince in pain but it’s nothing compared to what he feels. He doesn’t know if he should be crumbling forwards or backwards as he struggles to find his balance, thrusting his hands out and trying to grab me. If it was Opie, we would be rolling in the dirt by now, laughing and joking, but this is different. Pietra has cowered away, as I thought she would. I step to the side and smash my fist as hard as I can into Rush’s ear, once and then twice. Everything has happened in a matter of seconds and he falls to the ground, cradling the various body parts he won’t be using any time soon.
I step away and watch him rolling on the floor. Aside from his groans, there is silence around the cabin. I look down at my unmarked, uncreased dress and think of how Opie would probably be grinning at me right now in that lopsided way of his.
Without a word, I cross to the other side of the carriage and sit next to Wray, taking his hand in mine. He is still shaking but it is in disbelief, not fear.
‘You did that for me?’ he whispers, stumbling over his words.
I don’t reply, gripping his hand reassuringly tighter and watching as Rush slowly gets back to his feet.