‘How did such a darling thing like you come to evolve on such a harsh world?’ I murmur, laughing as it paws at me with one of its cloven hooves, its long legbent at what would have been an impossible angle for an Earth mammal.
‘This world is not harsh for those who serve our god,’ Irena says quietly behind me. ‘Nor for those who serve us.’
My stomach drops. I had forgotten that the lambs are being kept for food. That I ate one last night. I scratch the lamb’s ears as Irena tells me about their diets, how the lambs feed on the natural grass and brush, how they utterly trust the sisters and willingly give their milk and their flesh. As if it’s all they were born to do. My stomach twists.
I have the mad urge to gather the lamb into my arms and flee with it, back to civilization where I will keep it safe forever.
‘It seems unfair,’ I say, kissing the lamb’s head.
Irena glances at me. ‘What does?’
‘That they don’t have a choice in the matter. That their only purpose is …’ I wave a hand.
Irena crouches suddenly next to me and takes my hand in hers, holding it tight. Her eyes glow, as usual, with unshed tears. Her words are harsh, almost guttural in their utterance. ‘Tell me, Midonia. Who in this world has a choice?’
I yank my hand away from hers. I want to protest, to exclaim thatIdo. So does she. But I think of Old Earth, half caught in permafrost, the other half overpopulatedand stricken with disease. I think of my life, my shitty studio flat, the multitude of beautiful existences that are simply not available to me. I think of all the things I will never be allowed to do, the lives I’ll never be allowed to live.
‘Do you?’ Irena continues, her voice softening as she speaks. ‘Do I? Does anyone? Or do we accept that each life is given meaning, imbued with exceptional purpose, even if that purpose doesn’t make sense?’
‘I don’t believe in fate, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Not fate. Something more powerful.’
I turn away, ill at ease. I don’t think we’re talking about the lambs anymore. I wish I had something sharp to respond with, some philosophical idea, an optimistic choice-driven belief system. But I have only the route I’ve taken, and the blood that will forever stain my footsteps, so I say nothing.
8
Back in the village, Irena leaves me to stare dolefully at my ship. I’ve given up on breaking in by force. Given up on changing into sensible clothes. I consider asking Sister Cadence how long these solar flares usually last, and if there’s a way to monitor them, but decide against it. How could Sister Cadence possibly guess how long the solar storms will last? There’s one pretty solid way to determine when they’ve ended: My ship will work again.
I feel eyes on me as I wander aimlessly through the village. Sharp eyes. Curious eyes. I hear whispers, murmured behind my back. The sisters seem fascinated by me, their gazes following me wherever I go, though they make no attempt to strike up a conversation.
They must wonder about the outside world. Many of these women have been here for decades, and might not know about the rest of humanity’s wars and famines and political maneuvering. I am a novelty to them.
Their gazes follow me like an unwanted shadow, and despite myself I feel an all-consuming desire to get away.To hide myself somewhere they won’t find me, somewhere they won’t follow. A place that tugs at my subconscious, whispering my name in the silence.
MIDONIA.
When the bell rings for evening meal, I am in my hut, elbows braced on the windowsill. The shutters are flung open, and I gaze up at the tree-thick mountainside. Fog swirls and drifts. It’s impossible to see what I know is there. But just as the bell’s final toll fades, the clouds break apart, and I see it: the jagged edges of the ruin, jutting out from the fog.
Irena will be here in a moment no doubt, eager to herd me toward the dining hall, eager to subject me to another bout of worship. The thought of it burns in my throat, my eyes pricked with unshed tears. I can’t bear to endure those memories again, the smell of death so vivid it’s like I’m reliving that day all over again.
But I can’t stop thinking of the wayheappeared to me during the worship, his hands all too real in the heat, his voice drifting against my mind like a phantom. I hate that I lean into it. That I want to see him again. That as much as his presence in my room last night unmoored me, it also lit a fire deep within that needs to be stoked.
I can’t endure those prayers again.
But I want to see him.
The thought, a sudden truth, grips me at the back of my neck and holds me tight:I am going to the ruin.
I’m out the door before I have time to properly think. And as the sisters trail toward the dining hall, I slip away into the shadows of falling dusk, toward the trees, and up.
There is a trail leading up into the darkening forest. I stumble upon it behind the bell tower. Keeping to the shadows, I hug the walls of buildings until I’m safely out of the village, enveloped by the trees. The trail is narrow, irregular, and difficult to follow. Most likely it was formed by the repetitive passage of some small creature, maybe the lambs.
I pick my way along the path, aided by no light but the pale remains of day. My shadow’s presence grows louder in my head, his voice a low hum that’s almost a purr, and I know that I am on the right track.
The trail curves sharply, hugging the slope, a zigzag of ascension. My white dress snags on a tree as I pass. I kick pinecones out of the way, listening to their clatter as they roll steeply downward. Once, at a break in the trees, I pause to stare out over the village. From here it looks like a scattering of toys, a child’s diorama. Something fleeting and tiny, easily trampled.
I shiver and continue onward.
