The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Raffai directs his attention to me now. “Joy? Are you prepared to fight if necessary?”

  “Of course. We have to protect our new home, our families.”

  Jax and Vila mumble to each other at my left, and Smudge pulls her hood up over her head. She’s shed the protective hat, but still has the habit of putting the hood on whenever she’s nervous.

  “We want to learn, too.” Mateo’s voice startles me. He and Pedro approach, Mateo with his usual limp from his injured knee. They stand behind us, and Mateo peeks at me from his peripheral for a second, before refocusing back to Raffai.

  “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, not with your knee, Mateo”—he motions to Pedro—“and your hand . . .”

  Pedro folds his arms across his chest. “Look, man, if you think we’re just gonna sit here and daydream while you people have all the fun, you’re wrong. We’ve got ways to work around our ‘issues.’ Strap a knife to my stump. I don’t care. We ain’t damaged goods, man. We can help.”

  Another peek from Mateo and I’m swimming in a mixture of guilt and longing. I survey the children’s sand city a few yards over, dotted with rocks and shells and twigs, and sympathize with that one castle built too close to the shore. Water strikes it again and again, ravishing its base, washing away pieces when it recedes.

  Mateo’s gaze does this to my soul. It angers me . . . though I’m not sure if it’s him or me I’m angry with. Maybe my fury sits on the surface of something deeper, hidden in a dark place inside me, somewhere I’ve tried hard to steer clear of since we arrived.

  A wave of nausea blindsides me. I squat and puke onto the ground, placing the gun down beside me with an unsteady hand. Both Jax and Mateo come to my aid.

  “I’m fine.” I wave them away. “Nerves.”

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” says Raffai. “You’re pale.”

  “I said I’m fine.” I stand, wiping sand from my pants. “Continue.”

  “Okay, well . . . okay.” He adjusts his glasses and addresses the group. “We’ll start with the anatomy of the weapons you hold in your hands.”

  Raffai explains the parts of the gun, shows how to take it apart and put it back together, clean and operate it. But my thoughts drift over to the horizon in my peripheral. Amazing how real our paradise appears with the early morning sun rising, shedding heat onto our skin. Hard not to marvel at such compound and elaborate technology. Still, I wonder about life above, about Alzanei, and beyond. How do we get there? Will we someday? Would we even want to? These questions circulate through my mind a thousand times a day.

  I grip the metal bracelet I made in the scrap room for my mother as a girl, twist it around my wrist in deep contemplation. She used to do the same thing, though I believe her reflections were different. She was sure she’d never be free. But she vowed to help me find freedom in any way she could. Only . . . she didn’t know how. Then, she died, thinking she’d failed me.

  I won’t let that happen to these children who depend on Momma Joy. No. I’ll do everything I can not to fail them . . . more than I have already.

  After familiarizing us with a few weapons, Raffai moves on to self-defense and hand-to-hand combat. I opt out of this one, and instead rest on a log bench by the fire pit, trying my best to learn by observing the others. But the sickness is so bad, I envision digging a hole in the sand and crawling inside it. Shoveling the sand back on top and ending the agony now. Moving an inch in any direction jostles the juices in my stomach, and I taste them in the back of my throat.

  A squealing, giggling, bouncing flock of children exits the Watchtower up the hill. I watch as they make their trek to the amphitheatre. Many of them have never had more than a few feet of freedom in their young lives, much less a quarter-mile. They swing from low tree branches, chase each other, jump and run, and play . . . And after a day full of freedom, they’ll rest safe and sound in their beds, in their own rooms tonight. That brings me as much joy as sorrow.

  At lunchtime, Raffai stands on a small dock near the bunker to fish, and the rest of our group chats on the shore. I still don’t move, though. I think they’ve realized it’s best to leave me alone for now, considering talking, moving—basically anything—makes it worse.

  Ms. Ruby and Suellen bring the children from the amphitheatre to the beach, and soon after, Morris and an AOAI boy bring baskets of food down for a picnic. The sight of the delectable food makes my stomach turn again. I haven’t held a meal down in days, and it doesn’t appear as though this one will be any different.

  “Are ya hungry, dear?” Ms. Ruby hands me a plate of food.

  I turn away from it. “No, ugh . . . not at all. But thank you.”

  “Momma Joy!” Chloe skips toward me with Pia and Raven tagging along behind. “Look what we found at the amphitheatre!” She opens her hand to reveal a palmful of brown rocks, and hands a few to Pia. “Magic stones like Billy’s! We’re gonna keep them in our pockets for when we need ’em most.” Chloe drops three into Raven’s palm. “Put ’em in your pocket, they’re magic.”

  “Okay . . . ?” Raven inspects them, one eyebrow raised, and bites into her sandwich.

  “She’s never heard the story of Billy’s Dragon, Momma Joy. Will you tell it? Pleeeease?”

  “Oooh!” Pia claps, hops, pigtails bouncing. “Or the Butterfly Mermaid! I love that one!”

  “Yeah, you haven’t told one in forever. Will you, please?” Chloe sticks out her bottom lip and hops in place, hands clasped.

  “Not right now—”

  “Aww . . .”

  “But I will later, if I feel better.”

  “What kinda sick are you?” Raven furrows her brow, props a hand on her hip. “Are you gonna die?”

  At that, I chuckle. “No, I’ll be okay.”

  “Hopefully Momma Joy will be well enough to tell ya a story in a while,” Ms. Ruby says. “Now you three run along and finish your lunches.” She shoos them off with the wave of a napkin.

  “Okay!” Chloe leads the other two away in a skipping, giggling frenzy, back to the rest of the younger girls’ spot on the shore.

  “I’ll eat part of yours,” Smudge says, “and save the rest for you for later . . . ? I don’t want it to go to waste.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Ms. Ruby hands her the plate. “Sadie—I mean, Smudge. Forgive me, dear, I’ll get it right one of these days. Why don’t ya take Joy to meet Mr. Tanner? He should be able to give her some herbs for the nausea.” She leans in to my ear. “Make sure and tell him . . . ya know . . .” And she pokes a finger toward my belly. “So he can give ya some-ting suitable.” She lowers until she’s perched atop a large rock, and she laughs. “Oh, me . . . I’m not complainin’, but we’ve never had this many children before. Ms. Ruby’s tired!”

  “Weren’t there children rescued from Alzanei?” I scan the content faces of the Greenleigh orphans eating their lunches. Only now does it strike me as odd that Raven was the only child here when we arrived.

  Ms. Ruby picks something from her skirt. “That’s a discussion for another time, dear.”

  “Come on.” Smudge taps my arm, mouth full. “Let’s go find Mr. Tanner.”

  We trudge along the uphill sandy trail lined with a wood-and-wire fence, weaving through groups of residents enjoying the sunny Wednesday afternoon. Up ahead are the greenhouses, then past them is the amphitheatre. Past that, the two acre orchard, then the farm, which backs up against the fenced-off jungle. And beyond that fence, the jungle . . . is proof of the lie.

  Smudge kicks at the sand with each step, one hand holding the plate of food, the other stuffed down into her pocket. I swear, she’s more and more human every day.

  “What happened to the Zentao children?” I ask.

  “They took them.”

  “Who?”

  “The Clergy.”

  “Why would they take c
hildren?”

  “Children . . . and embryos.”

  “What’s—”

  “An unborn child, before it has developed.”

  I place my hand on my stomach, pain in my chest at her words. “Why?”

  “The success rate of young embryos in the Cekducellus Pods has been about fifty percent. Once the embryo has reached a certain age, the success rate goes up to almost one hundred percent. Human mothers provide a healthy, natural environment until that time.”

  “What’s a Cek . . . cek—?”

  “A Cekducellus Pod is the artificial womb where OAIs are created and held for the first three years of their life.”

  “They take people’s babies?”

  “Yes. It is a law now in Alzanei that all unborns be sacrificed to the Clergy. When I left, they were working on a new OAI prototype for these ‘human grown’ OAIs. Any illegal older children discovered are made slaves in the Monastery until the age of thirty, then they are transferred and . . . euthanized.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “And once they have enough OAIs to maintain the civilization, the goal is to wipe out the free human race in less than five years. They’ll keep a few caged in a dark chamber in the Impure Village, force them to breed. Lord Daumier finds much pleasure in fantasizing about this future.”

  “What a sick bastard.”

  “That, he is.”

  A breeze rustles the treetops, sending a swarm of butterflies fluttering up into the fake blue sky. I’m reminded of Sadie—my father’s lover who gave her life and her mind for an OAI mind-map. For Smudge. I’m reminded of her beautiful paintings we found deep within the bunkers of Greenleigh, as unbelievable and miraculous as her mind being used in the creation of my now dear friend. When I ponder the way it has all come together, I still have a hard time believing it’s true.

  “Butterflies.” Smudge grins to herself.

  “How did they get down here?”

  “They brought cocoons from Alzanei. Some came from the jungle.”

  We watch for a moment as the fluttering creatures disappear in the treetop perches again.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How did Sadie sneak into the bunkers where she painted? My dad said they could never get past the sixth floor.”

  “There are things your father didn’t tell you for the sake of keeping you, and the information, safe until it was time. Sadie was sure he didn’t even tell her certain things for those same reasons. They’d met a man who could control the elevator; an old model OAI named Seraphim. A good man.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Yes.” She takes another bite of the sandwich.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “In a refuge for AOAIs. Perhaps we’ll get to meet him one day.”

  “I want to.”

  She swallows, nods. “Me, too.”

  Up the hill, almost to “The Wall” on the horizon, we reach the greenhouses. Greenhouse A is filled with all different shapes and sizes of smaller, potted trees—fruit trees, nut trees, berry bushes, and trees with flowers on them. Mr. Tanner says they start them inside, and once they’re taller, they plant them outside, around town or in the orchard. The horizon screen above is equipped with high concentration liqui-UV rays that help everything grow so well underground.

  We continue up the hill, past Greenhouse B, a conglomeration of plants, and Greenhouse C, an array of exquisite flowers. Farther uphill, Greenhouse D holds a man wearing overalls and a floppy gray hat. Perched in his mouth, his signature pipe emits wispy trails of smoke while he snips away at a small green bush.

  “Hello, Mr. Tanner.” Smudge places the half-eaten sandwich plate down onto a nearby desktop.

  He turns with a toothy grin and squinty, bloodshot eyes—“Oh, hey, Sadie, come on in!”—and he waves a dirty glove at us. “Hello again, Joy! Fine of you to stop by for a visit!” He sets his gloves and pipe down onto the table beside him, and extends a strong hand, to which I give a firm shake. Next to the pipe sit several big brown lumps that appear to be unusual rocks.

  “Nice to see you, too, Mr. Tanner.” I point to the lumps. “What are those?”

  “These?” He picks one up. “These here are the finest po-ta-toes you will ever eat.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Remember the clouds-in-a-can?” Smudge winks.

  “Oh! Yeah . . . but how—?”

  “You peel them first,” says Mr. Tanner. “Then boil them, mash ’em up, and add salt. Then you’ve got yourself a mighty dee-licious dish.”

  “My favorite food ever.” I snatch a potato from the desktop, surprised at its weight. “Will you show me how to cook them some day?”

  “Sure, Joy, I’d love to! Or even Morris could, in the kitchen. He’s a kind soul, and he loves to teach. He makes the best mashed taters you’ll ever eat.”

  “Morris . . . with the scar, right?”

  “Yep. You can attribute that to His Horribleness Himself.” He claps his hands together, cutting off that discussion. “So . . . what can I do for you ladies? You need something? Or just stopping by for a hello?”

  “Joy needs an herb for nausea,” Smudge says. “Ms. Ruby said you’d be able to give her one?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve got plenty around here for that.”

  Smudge gives me a gentle jab with her elbow.

  “Um, Mr. Tanner?” I fidget with my bracelet, kicking at the ground. “I’m, uh . . . I’m—”

  Smudge lays a soft hand on my arm. “Joy’s pregnant.”

  Mr. Tanner stills for a moment, glances at my belly, then he shrugs and picks up his pipe. “Morning sickness, eh?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Though it seems to happen all day, so I’m not sure why it would be called that.”

  “Generally, it’s worse in the mornings after you wake up.”

  “Yeah, true.”

  “How long’s it been going on? Are you able to eat at all?”

  “It started after we arrived here. And no, I haven’t eaten much in three days.”

  Mr. Tanner shakes his head. “Well, that’s not good. We’ve got to nourish that baby.” He goes over to a shelf lined with potted plants bloomed with orange flowers, and strips leaves from a branch. “And I have the best solution for that, Miss Joy.”

  On his way back to us, I notice two fingers missing from his left hand. “What happened?” I motion to them.

  “Oh . . . it was . . . an accident. In Alzanei. Before we came here.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah . . .” He bows his head with memories that must weigh a ton, then reaches into his pocket. “It’s in the past now.” With a heavy sigh, he removes a piece of brown cloth and drops the pile of leaves in the center. “This is a medicinal herb called Dahli.” He pinches two slender leaves from the pile, puts them in my palm, then folds up the cloth around the remaining leaves. “When the nausea comes on, chew a couple of the leaves, and you should feel better in no time.” He places the small package into my other hand.

  “Thank you.” I stuff the tiny parcel into my pocket and chew the bitter leaves to a pulp before swallowing them with a cringe.

  Mr. Tanner hurries to a rusty desk in the corner, grabs a pitcher of water, and pours some into a metal cup. “They’re bitter, but they work fast.” He heads back toward us, sloshing water from the cup, and offers it with a nod. “Drink up. That’ll help with the aftertaste.”

  I sip, swishing to loosen the leaf particles stuck in my teeth.

  “Better?”

  “Much, thank you.”

  He slips his thick, brown gloves on again. “Fantastic. Now, I’ve got to go feed the animals. You two have a wonderful day.”

  “Oh, about the animals.” Smudge retrieves our sandwich plate from the nearby desk. “Can we take the children by to see them
again? Tomorrow after lunch, maybe?”

  “That would be splendid! They’d love the attention! Take the kids over anytime and make yourselves at home.” With a wave, he swings a sack of feed over his shoulder and exits the glass building.

  Smudge pulls up her hood, tightens the drawstrings. “What do you want to do now, Joy?”

  “Let’s go for a walk. We have time before . . . um, what did Ms. Ruby call it again?”

  “Studies.”

  “Right. We still have an hour or so, don’t we?”

  “An hour and twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. Because I need to see them, Smudge, to know they’re real . . . to face that fear.”

  “See what, Joy?”

  “The walls of our prison.”

  Once we’re outside of Greenhouse D, the nausea has already subsided. A low grumble in my stomach tells me eating—and keeping it down—might be possible. I snatch the sandwich from Smudge’s plate and take a cautious bite. “Mmm . . . what is this? It’s delicious.”

  “Chicken and mushrooms with rosemary. Ms. Ruby is an outstanding cook. I almost wish I could eat three meals a day.” She chuckles.

  I gobble down the rest like I’ve never eaten before.

  “I guess it worked.” She grins. “I’m sorry, we should’ve asked him sooner.”

  “It’s okay.”

  To our right, atop the hill, is “The Wall,” which shoots green beams of light up into the pretend sky. The technology is remarkable. Impossible to tell it’s fake, at even this short distance from it. I walk toward it, and Smudge follows with a kick at the dirt.

  A short climb up, and my hand soon lies flat against rock. “How do they do this? How does it look so believable?”

  “The horizon screen is five feet behind the wall. It appears real from a distance, which is why they erected this wall here. The illusion of freedom, plus it protects the screen from human contact. They are delicate.”