The Fallow Page 11

  Maybe she dabbed at his blood while she held his head in her lap.

  Did she stroke his hair behind his ear, cry heartfelt tears, and assure him everything would be all right?

  Well . . . it was a nice thought.

  He’d likely never know what happened there either. When he came to, Virtue was long gone. He didn’t even get to see her in the High Courtroom. Was she there? Watching his tragic fall?

  Whenever he tried to envision where she may have ended up, he had to stop himself and redirect his thoughts. Otherwise, he’d be better off using the wall to knock himself into another coma.

  Why did she have to be so dedicated? So talented? So beguiling? And why did he have to be so indulgent? So selfish. . . ?

  Exhausted, starving, distraught . . . hopeless. Herald had no choice but to zone out. It just so happened to be to the voice of Law. He was behind bars across from him and one cell over, reciting doctrines, stopping only to spew insults at the Authorities passing through, never a syllable lacking its poignant animosity.

  Herald and Law had exchanged a few words earlier, though eventually, both consumed by their own personal Hell, had nothing further to say to each other.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, Herald. I can’t go on like this. I have to put my family first.”

  They had arrived at their secret meeting place—a splintered and remote picnic table in Portsmith Commons, Tuesday, half past noon—and Herald wasn’t prepared for this to be their goodbye.

  He had heard Virtue’s words but couldn’t believe she had said them. She wasn’t looking him in the eye, though. It was as if she hadn’t yet convinced herself.

  What was the real reason she was abandoning The Chronicles? She had worked so hard. She had made years of progress in months of time. Her writing was honest, brave, moving. He was a changed man because of it. Didn’t she realize that? And if she could give him hope, make him believe in true love again, wasn’t there a chance she could do the same for others?

  Was it all a loss because of one kiss? If that were true, he’d take it back! As much as he wanted to, wanted her more than anything else, he should have never crossed that line. Not if it meant losing her completely.

  The cruel winter wind then gave him a better clue than her words did. Virtue wore a wool-knit winter hat, but her hair was loose and flowing below the confinement. A long strand draped itself across her cheek and mouth. She pulled off her mitten to collect and tame it, exposing a hand, drawing attention to her cheek, and neck . . . all three areas blotched with deep purple bruises.

  Virtue replaced her mitten. Then she set her hand on the table. Herald put his hand on top of hers. He patted it to let her know that he understood. Before she pulled away from his touch, he slid his hand up her coat sleeve to let her know how much he understood.

  As he exposed more and more bruised skin, she retracted her arm.

  “Did he do this to you?”

  Her father.

  “No.”

  Her reply.

  He nodded once. Her father may not have injured her, but he was undoubtedly involved. And that meant her stepmother . . . the only mother figure she had ever known . . . had also made up Virtue’s mind for her . . . with force.

  “Virtue. . .” Herald took a deep breath and held it in for a long while. It was his attempt to channel his anger far away from her. He was more to blame than she was, and yet. . . “If you need any help, just say the word. I don’t want to see you suffer for doing what you were born to do. I’ll do my best to find you a safe place to stay. It could even be with me for now. You could still write . . . at dawn or in the middle of the night . . . whatever makes you happy . . . and . . . I’ll sleep through it. I’ll sleep on the floor!” He was practically groveling. “No funny business. I promise.” He put his hands up to further assert that he had no weapon he intended to use on her. He’d come in peace. He would offer his humble abode to her for nothing in return. His love would remain platonic if that’s what it took to keep her as his model, his ideal, his absolute. “I would never hurt you. Or. . .”

  He finally dropped his hands and he received a somber smile for it. “I know.”

  “And I could never live with myself if I stood by and let it happen by someone else’s hand.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but . . . my resignation must go into effect immediately.”

  He nodded, his eyes too unpredictable, his throat too constricted to do more than comply and say his final piece: “Then I wish you the very best of luck. And if you ever change your mind . . . meet me here, this day, this time. I’ll return every week, through the chill of winter, the snow, the rain, the storms, and through the heat of summer. I’ll do so until your twenty-fifth year. Heck, I’ll even wait until your twenty-sixth, just to be sure. Then, at long last, I’ll be left to assume you’re happily married.”

  To someone else. . .

  ***

  Herald awakened with a start, gasping for air, clawing at the pain. He could practically feel the tug of a noose around his neck already.

  Why couldn’t he just let her go? He had to give her a way back in, even though she was much better off without him. Without The Chronicles. Her father was a coward and her stepmother was a despicable human being, but the situation was temporary. Virtue only had to find a husband and some reputable life purpose, well within her capability of achieving before her Bearing Age stretch was up.

  But by springtime earlier that year—a lovely warm afternoon in April—she had returned to him, bubbling over with new ideas and fresh, well-written composition for him to peruse, and many apologies, which were a waste of breath. She could have changed sides and he would have forgiven her.

  And because of his influence, his support, his passion, he took any other option away from her. He did that to his other writers as well. They all had more to lose than whatever it was they were hoping to gain.

  The Holy Authority was right.

  He deserved to die.

  “Don’t let them break you. . .”

  Law again. And quite an unusual choice of words for him. . .

  “Fight on, fight hard. Write until you die or times change.”

  Herald grappled with the ground to get to his feet. He struggled to walk or stand upright until he had bars in his hands for support.

  “And even then. Don’t let anyone ever forget.”

  He peeked down the corridor, his eyes begging for clues, enough light and. . .

  Could it be? Is it really her?

  Virtue was in front of Law, nodding her head. Her fists were clenched between his hands.

  “Can you do that for us? It’s a doomed man’s final request.”

  Her blonde braid of hair brought tears of relief to Herald’s eyes. And repressed any flare of jealousy he may have otherwise felt.

  When Law noticed Herald standing there, he gave Virtue’s hands a last squeeze and a quick peck with his mouth. Then Law bowed his head and let her go to him.

  Herald and Virtue’s reunion would have been more passionate, but because of the bars, their kiss wasn’t deep enough, their grasp for each other failed to be complete or fully satisfying.

  “You’re not. . .”

  He stroked a wisp of hair behind her ear and didn’t even want to say the word . . . Fallow.

  She shook her head and ran her fingers over his left brow. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m better now,” he said, turning his head to bury it in her palm. “But clarity eludes me. Please bear with me.”

  Though she didn’t quite smile, her face brightened for just a moment. And then it returned to the doleful place it began. “I can’t stay long,” she said, glancing to her left. “But I need to tell you something. It was Captain. He never said so explicitly, but I believe this is all his doing. His request for my hand was a demand and I didn’t realize it. And this is my punishment.”

  Her gaze fell with such a depth of remorse.

  “It’s not your fault.” He cupped he
r face. It brought her wide eyes to his. He wanted her to see and believe the only truth that mattered. “If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me. I thought he was a man of honor. I trusted him with your lives.”

  “I tried, Herald. But I couldn’t save you or Law. Or Blasphemy.” Fresh tears dripped from her cheeks and onto his hands. “I even agreed to marry Captain if there was anything he could do to put a stop to this madness!”

  Herald’s hands dropped. His head and eyes did as well. And then he nodded . . . to concede.

  “But he was so cold,” she continued. “He claimed my request was out of his power. And yet in my heart, I knew he was lying.”

  He took a moment to stroke her face. . . and her tears away. “Does the marriage offer still stand?”

  “Yes,” Virtue sputtered, clearly rattled. “They agreed to a deal for me. It’s the only way I can avoid. . .”

  The inhumanity. . .

  “Then take it! I want to die knowing you’re well cared for.”

  Their sad eyes wandered over each other, absorbing it all—the injuries, the tattered clothing, the blood and grime—and seeking answers for questions they didn’t have time for or the will to ask.

  When their bodies drifted closer together, they kissed again, slowly, as if their goal was to savor each other this time.

  And well before they were ready to say goodbye, an Authority Figure arrived and peeled Virtue from Herald’s lips and grip.

  Virtue squirmed and made a scene. But she was no match for brute strength. “Never will a day go by that. . .” were the last words he could make out.

  That I don’t think of you? That I don’t miss you? Or love you?

  “That I’m not with you,” he shouted in return. “My love is . . . eternal,” he finished softly, collapsing to his knees. “If there really is a God and that He is merciful.”

  His despair overtook any dignity he had left. And that’s when Law reappeared. His mild gleam suggested he had been listening to the entire ordeal. “Do you honestly believe she’d give his hypocrisy a moment of consideration?”

  “Well,” Herald bawled out, his head pressed against a frigid bar of iron. “A man can hope.”

  Chapter 11

  Captain

  The door of the Examination Room reopened . . . at last. Captain granted five minutes and it had been more than eight. If his orders were deliberately disobeyed, the one responsible would pay the price.

  He had a feeling he knew who that was.

  Captain smiled at Virtue and her Authority Figure escorts, pleased to see her back in handcuffs. Her face was a swollen pink and dripping with misery as well.

  He couldn’t say he minded that either.

  If this was a game, as she claimed, he took pride in winning by a landslide . . . no matter what she chose to do.

  “I hope you found that . . . satisfying,” he said to Virtue as she was strong-armed back into the chair beside Dr. Wayward. At his attorney’s nod, Captain made sure his new fountain pen—much more robust than the one she had smashed onto his white shirt—was oozing with ink for her. “Though I highly doubt it.” He flipped around the Marriage Bond paperwork for her and pushed it forward. “Your goodbye, my love, was done and over with in such haste!” He set the fountain pen down on top of it. “But knowing Herald, I can’t say I’m surprised. Sign here please. . . .”

  He tapped at the blank line on the paper, looked down, and blinked, already an instant too late.

  Virtue didn’t go for the pen this time. Instead, she had launched herself at him . . . and swung. Her balled fists bashed against his skull. His chair tipped. They both fell to the ground as their bound and unbound limbs were in quite a tangle.

  Was he still winning? Yes. Her strength wasn’t as mighty as her determination. Even so, he took a knee to the groin just after her wrists were captured in his grip.

  Then, finally, he had help. The Authorities tugged her away from him, though her hands broke free. She had enough time for an attempt to scratch out his eye.

  “I would never marry you,” she spat as she was being carried from the room. “I’d rather die a slow and painful death!”

  “If that’s what you wish.” Captain rose to his feet, blotting his face with the sleeve of his shirt. It was already stained with ink. And now it was soiled with streaks of blood. She had missed the eye itself, it seemed, but he could tell from the sting that she left bleeding gashes over his eyelid and cheek. “I can’t promise you death, but you will be familiar with pain.”

  “As will you. Burn in Hell!”

  For the Ungodly outburst, the Authority Figure carting her out released her shoulder to crush a hand over her mouth. After biting him and kicking the man in front of her, an incapacitation prod was applied. After an audible zap, the fight twitched and gurgled out of her.

  They removed her limp body from the room . . . with ease.

  At the slam of the door, Captain’s glare snapped to Dr. Wayward. “Leave us.”

  He bowed his head, gathered his coat and medical case, and scurried out of the room as if he feared for his life.

  Donald Hickey, Captain’s attorney, then signed and stamped the official time and date onto Virtue’s Fallow Authorization Order.

  Captain glanced at the Identification Code at the top of the page. She’d begin her fallow life as X21-482. At his request and his attorney’s seal of approval, her body would be marked as “exclusive” and she’d be processed accordingly.

  Handed the pen, Captain placed his initials, MAW, beside her code and the date—October 24th, 177 anno Redeemer 1—and next to a whole slew of fine print. He signed the document at the bottom as well.

  Morton Aamon Wersal, the Captain.

  His attorney then copied X21-482 onto a Fallow Purchase Requisition. “I assume you know what to do with this?” he asked, handing over the next item of business.

  Captain glanced down at it. “Fill it out. Sign it. File it at the Town Magistrate’s Compound.”

  “Yes, and this time ask for Asmodeus, also known as Sixty-six. And do so immediately.” Donald Hickey gathered together the relinquished Marriage Bond documentation and stashed it in his briefcase. “I’ve put in a good word for you, but he waits for no man.”

  (1) The year is modeled after the A.D. and B.C. that we use in our current date numbering system. But instead of anno Domini (A.D.), Latin for “in the year of our Lord,” it would be anno Redeemer, or A.R. So this story takes place 177 years after the birth of their original Redeemer, Joshua Braintree.

  ***

  Captain had an estate that satisfied his familial and recreational needs, but the Town Magistrate’s Compound was monstrous on an entirely different scale.

  He didn’t particularly like Solomon Braintree the few times he had met him—there were few who did—but he had to give him some credit. He had built an empire and had the uncontested power and reputation to maintain it. His extreme wealth and political shrewdness enabled him to win every election by such a large margin that Portsmith stopped holding elections for the Magistrate position. He had now been in office for over forty years and there was no indication he’d be stepping aside anytime soon.

  Solomon was also a titan of industry. He and the fruit of his loins had spread their familial tendrils through more business endeavors than Captain could name or tabulate. Solomon’s “sharp shooter” status didn’t exactly hurt his inward currency flow, either. He had over three dozen wives and a hundred and eighty children. If there was a viable womb to fertilize, his reputably large “endowment” never seemed to miss. And better yet, over seventy percent of his offspring were male, something he never failed to mention.

  His male progeny not only worked for him—they were required to if they intended to remain in his good graces—but many of them also lived on the Compound, especially the unmarried of the lot. His daughters and granddaughters were also a source of income. They were generally married off soon after the onset of Bearing Age to the highest bidder. Any young woman wit
h Braintree blood in her veins would fetch a handsome sum among the pious, regardless of her personality and outward appearance—dim-witted, spoiled, plump, and more masculine than feminine in most cases, with few exceptions.

  Captain sought God in other ways, but to each his own.

  And on the first of January, Neoterra Feast Day would commence, and the night would close with Solomon’s lavish wedding to his next young conquest, typically much more agreeable than his own children (though not always). The “goods,” these days, were particularly hard to come by. Nonetheless, these banquets were black-tie events, the ticket prices growing more and more outrageous as the years progressed.

  Captain, admittedly, had been to a number of his Feast Day weddings and a few of his children’s, which usually took place during the summer months. The Compound was the place to meet people, to close a deal, to groom a son for success, to show off a new bride or Bearing Age child, etc. For Captain, these events provided him with business opportunities, if nothing else.

  On that day, he was unlikely to cross paths with Solomon at all, thank the Redeemer! He had over one hundred and thirty sons to do his bidding. But he didn’t particularly care to interact with someone he’d never met before. The name, Asmodeus, didn’t even ring a bell and Captain had been dappling in his alleged market for a while. Virtue was an “exclusive” order, though, and that would bring him up the ladder in terms of customer service . . . and price.

  It was another awful day on the bay—cold, misty, and with intermittent rain—and he wasn’t quite dressed for seafaring in these conditions. He was no longer clad to make a good impression, either, thanks to the blood and ink stains on his shirt. Luckily, he dug out a wool sweater from the dry storage area of his speedboat and that would have to suffice. He put it on over his soiled shirt, zipped his rain slicker back up, and replaced the yellow hood.

  After docking his boat, he climbed the steep stairway that traversed the rocky slope.

  He was nearly out of breath when he reached the black, wrought-iron gate with a guard station in front of it. The fogged-over window slid open at his approach.