Is it worth all this resistance?
I push my ragged, waterlogged hair out of my face, blinking rain from my eyes.
A figure stands before me on the path. Silhouetted black in the rain, unmoving, and I feel its eyes on me.
My breath catches like a fish on a line, and I halt in my descent, skidding, nearly losing my balance.
The figure steps toward me. It is dressed in white.
‘Irena?’ My voice breaks, child-like and frightened.
She moves closer and I recognize her, the sister I know, the sister I wish I could trust. Her face is twisted, her hands outstretched as if to draw me into an embrace.
‘Midonia,’ she says. ‘I’ve been so worried. The whole village is out looking for you.’
Her words are kind, but her eyes are black and hard like volcanic rock. Her expression is wrong; there is fear, and sympathy, but … something else. Something I can’t name, but it prickles at the base of my skull.
‘You should not have come up here,’ she says. ‘Follow me back to the village.’
I don’t move.
We watch one another as the rain cascades over us, ice-cold. I’m drenched to the bone. I have no choice but to go with her. The realization is a fist closing around my heart, and I feel revulsion rising like vomit in my throat. I try to rationalize that there’s no reason to fear her. In fact, she ought to be my savior, come to deliver me from the horror that waits in the ruin. But I think of my ship, grounded. My clothes, taken from me. No radio with which to contact the outside world.
There is only the sisters, their isolated colony, andthe monstrous being who watches over them. A knot forms in my gut.
My missing clothes, the solar flares …
Have I had a choice in anything at all since I landed here?
‘Come,’ Irena repeats. There is an edge to the word, steely and unforgiving.
There’s something wrong with her eyes, I think.Something she’s hiding.
But there is nowhere else to go.
I step toward her. She grasps my elbow, holding me tight. ‘What were you doing up here?’ she asks, her voice dripping with concern. ‘The forest is thick, the slopes are steep. It’s so easy to get lost unless you know the way.’
‘I don’t know,’ I murmur.
‘You did not think. You missed the evening meal.’
‘I wasn’t hungry.’
Her jaw is set, her eyes flashing. Her fingers dig into my arm. ‘You cannot miss our evening meal again. You must pray with us.’ Her expression softens. ‘I don’t want you to starve.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Her reply is guttural, a low rumble in her throat: ‘You will not miss another meal.’
A chill runs down my spine. ‘Fine, okay,’ I relent. What else can I do, starve? ‘I won’t miss another one.’
She relents and her grip relaxes. We descend from the mountain. As we return to the village, the rain thickens to ice. Sleet hammers the thatch-roofed huts, and I imagine the rain falling and falling until the river rises above its banks, washing everything away, houses and all, until only the ruin is left, jagged and dark where it clings to the mountainside.
As we enter the village, I think Irena will lead me to my hut and leave me there. But we pass it by. Her grip is still firm on my arm.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, shivering violently. Vaguely I’m beginning to worry about hypothermia. I need a hot bath and dry hair or I fear I might fall asleep and never wake.
‘We are late.’ Irena doesn’t elaborate, but it becomes clear we’re heading for the dining hall. Another meal? Or am I about to be force-fed by Irena? Is she truly so worried that I’ll starve? Am I reading into everything, injecting manipulation and malice when there is nothing but care and concern?
