snow, he slid them under the makeshift jacket and next to his skin. One of the women at camp had promised to sew him some mitts from a child’s sweater he’d managed to grab from the village during one of his raids. It was too small to be worn by anyone at camp.
Despite the layers, he still felt the cold.
As he hiked, the images of his dead neighbours flickered in his mind. He needed to be away from the camp—he found it confining, like he imagined a prison might be. Some mornings he woke, entangled in his blankets, and unable to breathe; his heart pounded so hard he could almost see it escaping his chest. But each time he forayed into the woodland, the memories of what he’d witnessed at the village overwhelmed him. He couldn’t prevent them. Strewn about like branches after a storm, the remains of people he had known well enough to care about had become cold and grey like ash. Their eyes had been open, staring at him. Accusing him. Resentful that he was alive instead of them. Their skin was tight and drawn across their bones. That their skin was visible at all was because they were all naked, even the youngest girls. All their clothing had been removed and burned. Almost everything had been taken from the village or destroyed. The preacher said the Peacekeepers would have wanted to take everything they could find, so as to leave them as few supplies as possible. Starve them out of hiding. Force them to freeze as winter bit hard.
But Jordi knew things about the village that those men did not. Knew places where useful things might be found. Over the course of the previous ten days, he’d raided the village twice. Each time it had been quiet. The first time, when he reached the edge of the forest he almost turned back, too terrified to carry on. He’d sat for an hour watching from a hollow beneath the gnarled roots of an old tree. When he finally managed to convince himself there was nothing moving within the village, he ran to it as fast as he could. Heart beating and bile in his throat, he’d come away with blankets, tools and some boots. The second time, he’d managed even more.
This would be his third trip. His mood was lighter and the fear had dissipated slowly with the success of each raid. But he cautioned himself not to be complacent.
As he hiked, he watched constantly. To him, the forest felt different in winter. The blanket of snow and hoarfrost veiled everything in white and silver; it glistened even in the dim light beneath the brumal cloud. A place usually so familiar to him now seemed utterly alien. As if ghosts hid among the shadows cast by trees that now seemed haggard and wretched. And maybe they did—maybe the dead from the village now wandered the forest, in search of peace or seeking to snare the unwary. Perhaps they thought Jordi a traitor—that he should have died with them.
But what good would that have done anybody?
He had no tears left for them. He’d cried everything he had. For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander, and he clutched at the memories of the days he and his brother would spend together when not working the fields. They would hike through the forest, hunting and fishing or collecting wood for the fires before winter. When dusk descended and painted the landscape in scintillating shades of red and purple, they’d watch the freighters come into the Port from the tiny track on the mountainside above it.
I miss you, Ish. Are you alive? I wonder what you’re doing right now?
He closed his eyes for a moment and he could almost see his brother’s rakish smile, his floppy hair falling down over one eye. He could hear his voice as clearly as if he were next to him.
Keep going, Jor. You’ve got people relying on you. You can’t let them down.
I won’t, Ish. I’ll never let them down. Or you. I promise.
He opened his eyes and pushed the pain away. He knew his mother and father missed Ishmael. Some nights, he watched them huddled together, comforting each other. He
Despite the layers, he still felt the cold.
As he hiked, the images of his dead neighbours flickered in his mind. He needed to be away from the camp—he found it confining, like he imagined a prison might be. Some mornings he woke, entangled in his blankets, and unable to breathe; his heart pounded so hard he could almost see it escaping his chest. But each time he forayed into the woodland, the memories of what he’d witnessed at the village overwhelmed him. He couldn’t prevent them. Strewn about like branches after a storm, the remains of people he had known well enough to care about had become cold and grey like ash. Their eyes had been open, staring at him. Accusing him. Resentful that he was alive instead of them. Their skin was tight and drawn across their bones. That their skin was visible at all was because they were all naked, even the youngest girls. All their clothing had been removed and burned. Almost everything had been taken from the village or destroyed. The preacher said the Peacekeepers would have wanted to take everything they could find, so as to leave them as few supplies as possible. Starve them out of hiding. Force them to freeze as winter bit hard.
But Jordi knew things about the village that those men did not. Knew places where useful things might be found. Over the course of the previous ten days, he’d raided the village twice. Each time it had been quiet. The first time, when he reached the edge of the forest he almost turned back, too terrified to carry on. He’d sat for an hour watching from a hollow beneath the gnarled roots of an old tree. When he finally managed to convince himself there was nothing moving within the village, he ran to it as fast as he could. Heart beating and bile in his throat, he’d come away with blankets, tools and some boots. The second time, he’d managed even more.
This would be his third trip. His mood was lighter and the fear had dissipated slowly with the success of each raid. But he cautioned himself not to be complacent.
As he hiked, he watched constantly. To him, the forest felt different in winter. The blanket of snow and hoarfrost veiled everything in white and silver; it glistened even in the dim light beneath the brumal cloud. A place usually so familiar to him now seemed utterly alien. As if ghosts hid among the shadows cast by trees that now seemed haggard and wretched. And maybe they did—maybe the dead from the village now wandered the forest, in search of peace or seeking to snare the unwary. Perhaps they thought Jordi a traitor—that he should have died with them.
But what good would that have done anybody?
He had no tears left for them. He’d cried everything he had. For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander, and he clutched at the memories of the days he and his brother would spend together when not working the fields. They would hike through the forest, hunting and fishing or collecting wood for the fires before winter. When dusk descended and painted the landscape in scintillating shades of red and purple, they’d watch the freighters come into the Port from the tiny track on the mountainside above it.
I miss you, Ish. Are you alive? I wonder what you’re doing right now?
He closed his eyes for a moment and he could almost see his brother’s rakish smile, his floppy hair falling down over one eye. He could hear his voice as clearly as if he were next to him.
Keep going, Jor. You’ve got people relying on you. You can’t let them down.
I won’t, Ish. I’ll never let them down. Or you. I promise.
He opened his eyes and pushed the pain away. He knew his mother and father missed Ishmael. Some nights, he watched them huddled together, comforting each other. He
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