Page 16

My fingers fiddle with my skirt again as a chorus of voices floats through the door leading to where the funeral is being held. Everyone in the hall is singing together. I don’t recognize the song, but that’s not surprising. I’m not familiar with many songs, other than a couple that Mum will hum when she’s happy, like on the rare occasion a trader arrives with enough poppy extract to last the month. Perhaps singing and being able to learn and enjoy music is another luxury that only comes when you know safety, thanks to an electrified fence.

The song ends, and Vador’s deep voice is mysteriously amplified as he speaks to the crowd. Enola startles me by sneaking in through the hallway door and taking a seat. “Did he start yet?”

“Just now.”

“You don’t have to be here with me,”

I say. “I can manage alone.”

She wiggles her nose. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

I doubt that but return to listening.

“Thirty-seven-years ago, all I knew of Farron Banks was that he was an academic who read too many books while sitting in the heat of the sun.”

Vador’s deep voice reverberates through the walls as he speaks. “I knew this not because we were friends, but because we were neighbors. My first real interaction with Farron came the day the bombs fell. Though we were many miles away from the first explosions, our windows shattered and our walls cracked as they shook. Enola and I knew we had to flee. But as we backed out of our driveway, a set of hands slammed on the hood of our vehicle. My eyes met Farron’s. ‘Get in,’ I said. And he did.”

A rumble rises from the crowd as it stirs. I’m riveted.

“That began our journey through what we were sure was the end of all existence,”

Vador continues. “Together, the three of us drove until we couldn’t drive anymore. Walked until we couldn’t walk anymore. Slept and ate where possible, until even those things became impossible. All hope dwindled as we realized that our enemies, though we still don’t know which one, had laid waste to us in the most strategic and catastrophic way. With the cities destroyed, and the land and water poisoned by their bombs, violence from the survivors escalated.

“Our estimates are that ninety percent of the people in the Republic died in that first year, and although we can’t prove that, we can say with certainty that we should not have survived. After all, I was only a teacher. I didn’t have the skills to survive this new world.

“But Farron, a man who believed the Creator’s plan for us wasn’t death, one night had a dream. He dreamed of a town called Kingsland. A place with mountains on one side and a clean, flowing river on the other, and all we had to do was walk northwest. So, we walked. And we fought for our lives. And we starved. We picked up some of you along the way. We buried too many as well. But if not for Farron’s faith in a dream, I’m certain not a single person in this building would have the life we’re able to enjoy today.”

My hands grip the edge of my seat.

“We found Kingsland exactly as Farron saw it in his dream, untouched and unpolluted by the bombs. Empty of people. But arriving was only the beginning of this new chapter. Though he had never picked up a weapon, it was Farron who tackled our constant invasions by organizing ex-soldiers to militarize our border. Farron had never planted a seed, but he coordinated the farmers and streamlined their knowledge into our agriculture. It allowed for trade, both importing and exporting, that would meet our community’s needs. Thanks to him, we have mentorships of vital jobs, ensuring we never lose essential knowledge. You see, Farron became a great leader not because he knew how to do everything, but because he knew how to organize the people who did.”

A great leader.

Images of Farron’s body flash in my mind. Of him lying belly-down on the back of a horse. Struggling to breathe. Dying beneath my hands.

“But finding an undamaged town exactly as it was foretold wasn’t the only wonder we experienced. The sixteen founding families, Enola and I included, began to experience something . . . interesting.”

A low hum of laughter follows from the crowd. “We’ve come to call it the connection, and whether it was the Creator’s reward for the faith of those who made such an impossible journey, or, as many of you believe, a twisting of our biology from months of exposure to the bombs, I’m not here to argue. Regardless of how the connection came to be, our families have found unity and our numbers have flourished.

“But the connection didn’t eliminate people’s opinions. Farron faced constant criticism for making our community interconnected. People had to share food, homes, and riches. We had to rely on one another as if we were family. Most controversial, perhaps, was Farron’s approach to our security. He insisted our soldiers would be well-trained, but we would not needlessly kill and pillage like our enemies.”

My spine jerks. Lies.

“We also would not live for vengeance. It was a radical strategy after surviving all that came after the bombs. But that approach has served us well.”

A murmur rises from the crowd, and I shove to my feet, unable to take the humanization of Farron anymore. The covering up of his viciousness. His crimes. What is Vador saying? That our soldiers were mistaken in thinking they needed to kill themselves if they faced capture? That we’re delusional for believing the clans need to unite or risk being slaughtered? None of this makes sense. If it wasn’t Kingsland, then who’s responsible for mutilating and killing our clansmen and animals over the years?

Vagabonds. That’s what Tristan had said. The violent thieves who roam between our lands. Could it be possible?

My eyes clench shut. No, don’t let them twist what you know. All that you’ve experienced. Farron was the villain.

Wasn’t he?

He hit the ground and just lay there, as if he was waiting for me to extend a hand to help him to his feet. Liam’s words from the night Farron died come back to me, landing like little balls of hail, cracking the surface of everything I thought was true.

Vador’s voice takes on a somber note as he continues. “And, Tristan, you were Farron’s greatest joy.”

The tension in my body loosens at the reminder of Tristan’s loss. No matter who Farron was, he was still Tristan’s father. He was a person, and the people he loved are allowed to grieve him.

“You have worked hard to be an esteemed member of the elite guard,”

Vador says. “And your father has trained you well to follow in his path as our leader. If we can’t have Farron, we are fortunate to have you to continue his legacy.”

Vador calls for Shepherd Noreen to speak next, and to my frustration, she only reiterates what Vador said. It’s more salt in the wound. For my own sanity, I tune her out. Instead, I consider how a woman came to be in such a position of leadership over the men. Are none of their women slaves?

I remember this particular woman as the person who married Tristan and me. In the clans, only a clan leader is allowed to perform that task. The same goes for speaking at a funeral. Though to be fair, there’s no equivalent for the role of a shepherd in the clans thanks to Father’s aversion to religion.

But being a shepherd of the people isn’t the only extraordinary position women are allowed to hold here. They also are allowed to be soldiers, like the two who fought with Vador’s men in the forest. Is it because they don’t value or want to protect their women? Or is there something else?

“. . . because of the clans.”

My head snaps up.

“In times like these, justice is on everyone’s mind. And we can be assured that we will get our justice. If not on earth, then—”

“We’re not waiting anymore!”

yells an angry male voice. “It’s time to end this!”

A few others echo the same sentiment, and then a roaring, thunderous applause breaks out.

I meet Enola’s concerned eyes.

Shepherd Noreen attempts to calm the crowd. “I understand your frustration, but—”

“Wipe them from the earth!”

An angry shout drowns her out. “Kill them. Kill them.”

More and more voices join in.

The chant suddenly drops, and I lean forward, straining to hear. What’s happening?

“There will be justice,”

Tristan says. His voice is commanding and the crowd quiets quickly. “There will be justice. I am not my father. I will not extend that kind of mercy any longer.”

I stare at the wall without blinking as his words sink in, burying me, every sentence a bucket of heavy stones. He plans to be worse than Farron. I can’t imagine. Tristan told me as much, but he made it sound as though his hands were tied. Hearing him declare it like a decree, like there’s no other alternative, shows his duplicity—something I should have expected from the fox’s son.

“But today is a time to mourn and to honor the life of a great man,”

he says. “So please join me as we continue.”

After several moments of silence, Shepherd Noreen resumes her speech, turning to Tristan’s mum and the horse-riding accident that took her life. Her tone is somber as she goes on to list Tristan’s remaining relatives, his cousin Ryland, and an aunt, Ryland’s mum. At hearing how little family Tristan has left, his reasons for wanting revenge grow clearer. Deeper. But what does Tristan have planned? How many people need to die to pay for Farron’s death? Even if Liam survives their initial attack, how long before they learn of his involvement in killing Farron and decide to target him?

I need to press Tristan more on these things before I make my escape.