by Melissa Kay Clarke
Genre: Young Adult Dystopian
Life is tough for Zoe in the new world. As a small child, her voice can never be heard and she may as well be invisible. Except as a slave.
“Come. What is your name?”
The child opened her mouth to answer. Nothing happened. She tried again but not even a squeak emerged. Looking around, Zoe picked up a stick from the pile near the tent and wrote in the dirt: ZOE.
“You can’t talk?”
The little girl shook her head.
“Well, no matter. Let’s get some food in your belly and perhaps we can get you cleaned up afterwards.”
Zoe was given a bowl with a ladle of stew. She was so hungry she forgot the manners her parents had instilled and brought the bowl to her lips, slurping the first food she’d had in days.
The woman called to her husband in the tent. “Better come eat. I found a starving waif and she could probably eat your portion, too.”
The man who came out of the tent was big and had a bandana on his head. Zoe immediately jumped to her feet and, dropping the empty bowl, began to back out of the firelight.
“Sit and eat, Cane. You are scaring the child.”
The man gave the ragged girl a dismissive look and filled his bowl.
Turning to Zoe, the kind woman motioned the youngster back to the fire and, picking up Zoe’s bowl, ladled more stew into it before she prepared a bowl for herself.
Zoe couldn’t be sure, but the man looked like one of the soldiers who’d killed her parents. Her eyes large with fear, she couldn’t keep from staring at him as she chewed the last of the offered stew.
The woman picked up the bowls and grabbed a bundle from the tent. She put her hand on the little girl’s shoulder but turned to her husband. “Go on to your meeting with the other officers. Zoe and I will be at the stream.”
“I may be late, Maude.” And with those words Zoe knew beyond any doubt he had been with the group who’d killed her parents, and had certainly slit her mother’s throat.
Maude led Zoe downstream from the camp, and in a secluded little cove she handed the girl a sliver of soap. “Go wash up. I brought an old camisole of mine and some twine. It will do until your clothes are dry tomorrow. My husband has just received a promotion because two officers in his group were killed in a rebel skirmish. We’ll be leaving for the front in the morning.”
She chattered on as Zoe took advantage of the soap and scrubbed off the grime and blood. Maude worked on cleaning the stains from the child’s clothing. She suspected some of the soiled areas were blood stains but a glance at Zoe’s body only showed superficial bruises and scrapes. She wasn’t going to question the frightened child. It wasn’t important.
As the child emerged from the water, Maude handed her a towel. “Where are your parents, child?”
Zoe looked down, not wanting to meet the kind woman’s eyes as fresh tears rolled down her face. How could she tell this woman that her husband had murdered her parents but had never seen the little girl hiding in the root cellar? Or that the elevation in his rank was due to her father killing two men. The woman was nice but it wasn’t safe for Zoe to be near her husband. The little girl was leaving as soon as she could.
Holly’s world is shaped by her love of family, the beauty of the natural world and an irrepressible creative drive. She has always been curious and sees life through questions. These four characteristics color her writing voice and her stories frequently evolve from her asking “What if….?” Her tales tend to have non-urban settings with nature contributing to the plot, building discordant themes inside a seemingly peaceful refrain.
My motto: Weaving Alternative Worlds with Threads From Today.
TENDRILS
“Kes, M’nacht’s been attacked! He is in a bad way. I’m at Paramount Hospital now. He’s in surgery and I don’t have any information. I came back from the market to find the place crawling with security officers and M’nacht bleeding and broken on the floor. The room was a mess, as if someone was determined to find something. The officers wanted me to straighten up after they had gotten their evidence. I couldn’t find anything missing, but I did find M’nacht had programed a message bot and left it docked on the dash-key. Kes—he had set it on a timer to call in the alarm! Damn him! He had known they were coming and sent a delayed call for help! He took that beating when he could have prevented it! This morning before I left, he had mentioned for me to keep in touch with you if he couldn’t. I didn’t think much about it at the time. Anyway, I want you to know I’m here and watching out for him. Knowing that maddening old man, he probably sent you a message too. Whatever it was—heed it!”
Kes ran a shaky hand over his face and let out a shuddering breath. The steam car beeped its proximity to their destination. Kes took over the controls and parked in his space. The messages had rattled him enough that he braked the vehicle with a jolt instead of his normal smooth skill. He would rather be by his adopted father’s side, but the old man’s words kept playing in his mind. He needed to get to M’nacht’s place in the Heights as nonchalantly as possible and let himself in. It sounded like the home could be under surveillance. It didn’t matter who was watching: the law or thugs. He couldn’t be seen and he had to get in and out as fast as possible. This was the last twi-day. Perhaps the gloom would help. Pulling out a bulky sweater and a hat to disguise himself, he slipped the pack on his back and left the garage. His vacation could wait a few minutes.
When Kes got to the house, he furtively stepped off the sidewalk and behind some concealing bushes, then, crouching low, sprinted. He let himself into the empty house and, moving with as much rapid stealth as he could, went to M’nacht’s study. He glanced at the blood stains on the rug, the shards of a broken vase and the pile of books that Quin had organized as he’d tidied up. Wasting no time, Kes strode to the navorite and tapped a rhythm on the base. There was an almost inaudible whirring and a click as the gears engaged and the door opened. Kes listened to the silent house, then stepped inside the closet. He quickly removed the sweater and hat, stuffing them in the pack. The peepholes showed he was still alone in the room, so he turned to the work space. He glanced at the shelves and the armored wall safe but nothing appeared abnormal. On the narrow countertop was a small pile of items: a hand-sized leather-bound journal that looked very old and a small silk bag. On the top of both was a moon-pearl blossom. Kes knew that M’nacht loved those flowers. He picked it up. It had been cut that morning and still held traces of dew. Kes knew that the flower marked the small pile as if it had a sign with his name on it.
He stowed the journal in his pack and the small bag into his vest pocket. His hand paused as he pulled out his little fossil. Somehow everything tied back to the little navorite he’d found in the Cradle. He started to slip it back in his pocket when his attention was suddenly drawn to the peepholes. Two men and a woman were silhouetted in the study’s archway. They were using hand signals to each other and carrying cudgels. His heart began to pound and he moved to check if he had completely secured the door. It was still open a crack. With gentle pressure, he closed it, but there was a whisper of a click. One of the men whirled and leaned into the room. From beneath an overturned chair, the little robo-cleaner hummed into view. The man swore under his breath but stepped into the room anyway. The other two silently followed.
His heart was pounding as he peered through the hidden peepholes, watching the man get closer. Suddenly, Kes felt the air stir. There was a tang to the scent which reminded him of the sea. A heartbeat later, the hidden security closet was empty.
✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯
✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯
Holly’s world is shaped by her love of family, the beauty of the natural world and an irrepressible creative drive. She has always been curious and sees life through questions. These four characteristics color her writing voice and her stories frequently evolve from her asking “What if….?” Her tales tend to have non-urban settings with nature contributing to the plot, building discordant themes inside a seemingly peaceful refrain.
My motto: Weaving Alternative Worlds with Threads From Today.