I don’t want to answer. Jill starts pacing.
“I mean, they can’t really want to hurt us. Whatever this is about, we don’t have anything to do with it … ”
Samara thought different. And those bruises, her palms … I don’t know what we’re dealing with, but it’s bad.
“What do you think they’ll do to us?” Jill whispers.
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing … ” My words don’t mean a thing. I can see her thinking occult practice and human sacrifice. Jill snatches up the medical kit and starts putting it away.
“Can you stand? Try out your leg. It should’ve been long enough.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, ‘and then what?’ ” she snaps. “We get ourselves out of this place and back to the base camp.”
Hope is a frightening thing to feel. The pain of losing it is deep and forever.
FROM THE HIDDEN BOOK OF SAMARA ARCHIVA
IN THE CITY OF NEW CANAAN
I stand in the doorway of the rubble mound, beside the pile of rocks I’d meant to use to block the entrance. The cold in my mind is almost a comfort. It makes it easier to do what I have to. I lift my book over my head and leave it on the ground, piling rocks on top of it. I don’t want the Council to have it. And then I step out, into the middle of an overgrown street in the Canaan my people abandoned, a city they left so they could hide from Earth.
The moth clouds are rising, a long, stretching line, advancing both before and behind me, and I think of the Council walking through the city like a fan, trying to flush me out, trap me in the middle. It won’t be hard. They aren’t afraid to walk these streets, because I think maybe they already Know how the Forgetting works. Or maybe there is no Forgetting.
If the stories of Earth are real, maybe everything I’ve thought was real is only a story.
I wander between the rows of ruined houses and think about how the Council will do it. Something quicker than bitterblack this time. A blow to the head. A knife. Or maybe they’ll flog me until I die, like the Outside boy that Sonia liked so much. I wonder if they’ll listen to me say one sentence, “Earth has come.” Or if they won’t, and I’ll die for nothing. Like Nita died for nothing. Like Adam. I close my eyes, and I don’t even try to resist the weight of my memory. I let myself sink, plunge, down …
… and Adam is painting his eyes while I jump on his bed, my braids trailing up and down through the air. “Why do you have to go Outside?” I ask between bounces. “It isn’t safe Outside. That’s where Earth can get you.”
“There’s no such thing as Earth, Sam. And who says I’m going Outside?”
“I do. Supervisors go Outside.”
“Supervisor training won’t start again until the sun rises, and that’s not until tomorrow, so I’m not going Outside.”
“You’re going Outside because you’re wearing your Outside sandals,” I tell him.
He raises a brow at me in the mirror. “Why are you so smart?”
I roll my eyes, let myself land flat on my back on the thick, soft mattress. Like six-year-olds shouldn’t be smart. Six-year-olds can be just as smart as seventeen-year-olds when you’re Knowing. Or almost. I ask, “What does the sun feel like?”
“Hot. And bright. And the sky is so big and empty it’s like you could fall off the ground and get lost in it.”
“Then why are you going Outside if you could fall into the sky?” Suddenly I’m afraid that Adam won’t come back.
Adam puts down the paintbrush and comes to the bedside. He’s tall, like I will be, with the same brown skin, only his eyes are darker, his hair braids twisted into a long tail in the back. He holds out his arms and I leap into them, making him “umph” and then laugh. He hugs me, and his arms are so strong I Know nothing can happen to him.
He says, “Would you like to see the sun, Sam? Because the next waking is a special sunrise. A white sunrise, and I’m going to take you to see it.”
“Open air?”
“Yes. Open air.”
“But the gates will be locked, and Mother says I have to go to the party after Judgment. To celebrate being Knowing.”
“There’s nothing to celebrate after Judgment, Sam. That’s not a party worth going to. So listen to me carefully. I want you to lock your door after Judgment, okay? For the whole resting while everyone is at the party. Don’t let anybody in, no matter what you hear, and then I’m going to come and take you to see the white sunrise. It’s our secret. Just you and me.”
I say, “So, I shouldn’t tell Mother and Father about the sandals.”
“No,” he replies. “You shouldn’t tell anyone about the sandals.”
“Don’t let Mother see you, then. She’ll notice.” I hug him harder, feel the roughness of his chin on top of my head.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” he whispers. “I’m coming back. And when I do, you’ll see the sun, and I’ll hold on to you tight, just in case you jump too high and fall into the sky … ”
He throws me into the air, and I am flying, up and backward, giggling, closing my eyes just before I hit the mattress …
… and I open my eyes, and I am still falling backward, though now I’m stumbling in the leaf-dappled light of the ruined city. Someone has me by the arm. I bump into a body, and a voice whispers, “This way. Hurry!”
I’m being shoved across the street, still half in my memory. I wish I was all the way in my memory. It was the last time I saw Adam whole and well, and the pain of it is so bitter, I only rarely allow myself to remember the sweet. Adam loved me, even though I could hurt him.
When people love me, they die.
I’m through a doorway now, my back against a white stone wall, leaves and branches and bits of violet sky where the ceiling should be. There are plants growing through the floor, pepper and tomato and oil, like Nita showed me in the fields of the Outside, and in the center of the room is a fallen door of sparkling metal, still whole. A door made of mountain rock. Who would make a door out of mountain rock?
The other body is in front of me now, a hand still on my arm, and then I see the strange silver cloth. This is Beckett. He’s taller than I’d thought he’d be, taller than I am, and somewhere in my head, I can’t believe he’s standing on his feet. He has me by both arms now, trying to get me to look at him.
“Samara. Are you here?”
I nod. His words are short, cut off, like in my dream. Except for the eyes. The eyes are different. I can see the shape of them now they’re so close, through the clear glass of the magnifiers. Dark brown and angular.
“Shhh,” he says, listening. And then, through the hole that was once a window, the first member of the Council comes into view. Craddock. Of course it would be Craddock. He has a thick stick in his hand, capped with metal. I think it’s for my head.