The Way Life Was Forever Page 2

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  Next nightfall, Quil and I collect our empty basket and leftover stew and head toward the orchard with the others. Because it is harvest time, classes are suspended so that every able-bodied citizen may gather. There is much to be done before the imminent arrival of winter, so the entire colony works as one during harvest to ensure its survival for another year.

  The atmosphere is festive as we exit the vault with our home-woven baskets and bags. For most of the students, the nights spent in the orchard are a welcome relief from the vault libraries with their dreary histories chronicling our civilization. The one exception is my little sister, who devours books under the illusion that if she studies hard enough, one day the mysteries of the universe will open before her like the night-blooming cereus.

  I, like my classmates, have been anticipating the long fall nights spent out of doors. Tonight is especially fine. The delicate rustle of leaves permeates the air as the warm wind brushes against us, its caress made sweeter by the knowledge that at any moment the temperature will plummet.

  As we walk, Quil’s fine, shiny hair lifts in the breeze and scatters about her like the gossamer strands of a spider’s web blowing gently in the moonlight. The soft tendrils graze my cheek like a whisper. Each burst of contact envelopes me in her clean scent of honeysuckle and soap.

  Little Arcturus, who is in my sister’s class but a full head shorter than Quil, pushes past us, shouting enthusiastically, “The last one there is a foul, filthy sun-dweller!”

  Tugging my sleeve to capture my attention, Quil asks in a whisper, “Lyra, why do we hate them so?”

  “Because they’re horrible, depraved monsters,” I whisper back, forcefully, as if the vehemence of my reply will drive the point home.

  “But how do you know?” Her chin juts forward in rebellion, her pale eyes ready to reject any explanation I offer.

  I want to say, “Our history, our leaders; our very existence teaches us so. Why would we live in the vaults, locking ourselves in by day and depriving ourselves of the sun, if it were not the truth?”

  But the expression on her face tells me persuasion is futile. Instead, I warn, “Questions like that will only get you in trouble. Do you want to end up like Sirius?”

  She makes no further arguments, but as we settle into the task of picking apples, I catch her furtive glances toward the forbidden forest. As usual, she does a poor job of masking her wistfulness as imprudent ideas percolate in her childish head.

  The night goes quickly as I harvest fruit and keep a wary eye on my innocent, subversive sister. When the three sharp blasts pierce the quiet, indicating time to stop, I am surprised at the hour.

  Slipping lithely from her lower branches, Quil smiles up at me, chirping, “Two hundred and three apples. I’m going to see if I picked more than Arcturus. I’ll meet you in the storage room.”

  I watch her scamper off, relived she seems to have recovered from her rebellious melancholy. As I climb down, I think about Quil and Arcturus. They are merely children—friends, for now—but when the boy matures and shoots up in height, he will be one of the most likely pursuers of Quil’s hand. My potential brother-in-law.

  Agony is instantaneous. Something sharp and unpleasant skewers my chest. I search in vain for a weapon, the knife or sword that has cut me, but my physical body remains intact, even as my insides shred with pointless yearning.

  Trying to outrun my pain, I scoop up my overflowing bushel and half-walk/half-jog back to our vault, planning to lose myself in the deep shadows of the catacombs until my lapse of self-pity has run its course.

  “Get a move on girl! Where’s the little one off to, then?” Regulus breaks from custom to ask me a gruff question. His colorless eyes peer from beneath bushy white eyebrows waiting for a satisfactory answer.

  “No worries. She returned with Arcturus. By now she’s probably waiting for me in storage.”

  “Nay, Lyra. Arcturus returned alone. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

  For a minute his words have no meaning for me, so sure am I that Quil waits within. Then something clicks—the wistfulness, the furtive glances—the forest. In order to speak to Arcturus, she would’ve crossed the length of the orchard, right up to the forest’s border. Instantly, I know Quil’s true purpose was never to talk to her friend, but to slip into the woods unseen.

  Trying to temper my panic, I set down my bushel saying, “She must have gotten confused. I said to meet in storage, but she must be searching for me in the orchard. I’ll go fetch her.”

  Turning on my heels, I take a few brisk steps when I hear the vault-keeper’s gravelly voice at my back. “Best run, girl.”

  By the time I reach the far edge of the orchard, I am out of breath. Despite the flaming in my lungs, I push forward, moving over the uneven terrain as best I can. Pausing with my hands on my knees, I gulp down a large swallow of air and shout Quil’s name, stumble forward another forty paces and call out again.

  Trying to put myself in her head, I attempt to think like my foolish, harebrained sister. Successfully slipping into the forest, camouflaged by densely crowded trees, where would she go? What would she want?

  The sun.

  Scanning the patchy horizon, I search for any type of break that would indicate a clearing, a good vantage point to see the sky by day. Guided by the break in the canopy up ahead and the growing expanse of lightening sky, I find the spot. And although I do not see her, I know instinctively she is close.

  “QUIL!”

  Something beyond the glade draws my eyes, a flash of silver-white movement in the shadows. “Quil! Come here this instant!”

  Her eyes are huge with shame at being caught. As she steps into the clearing, I meet her. Gripping her shoulders so savagely my nails bite into her pale, unmarred skin, I give her a shake. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Ow, Lyra! You’re hurting me.”

  Unable to stop, I continue to employ excessive violence. I want this child, who has never experienced the sting of discipline in her life, to hurt. As her head whips back and forth under my fury, I tell her the pain of my wrath is nothing compared to sun-dwellers. “Is that what you want, Quil? To die a slow painful death as they eat you alive?” Shoving her away, I watch as she stumbles and lands hard on her backside.

  Stunned by my brutality, she gazes up at me crestfallen. Fat tears slip from the rims of her pale eyes, rolling in colorless synchronicity down her porcelain cheeks. In a tiny broken voice she says, “I just wanted to see the sun, Lyra. Just once.”

  Two sharp horn blasts piece the impending dawn. The final warning.

  Quil’s already huge eyes grow impossibly wide with fear as she scrambles to her feet. “The vaults!”

  In a typical child’s fashion, the implications of her impulsive behavior register only after the damage has been done. Pushing at her back to propel her forward, I order, “Run!”

  Much faster than me, Quil pulls ahead before we are even out of the glade. Quick and lithe, she dodges trees as she flies over the treacherous terrain. Exhausted and awkward, I stumble in her wake, doing my best to keep pace. “Run Quil!” I shout to her. “Run fast! I am right behind you.” Up ahead I glimpse the clearing and the orchard. At a full run we will just make the vaults in time.

  Finding hidden reserves of strength and speed, I push myself to go faster. Harder.

  I concentrate on the orchard, hurrying across the uneven ground. Suddenly my foot catches, ensnared by a thick vine. My momentum propels me forward even as my feet leave the ground. For a second everything slows as my body sails though the air, horizontal to the earth. Then the forest is rising up to meet me—or rather, I am crashing down to it. A thick tree trunk fills my vision as I tumble forward. A split second before understanding sets in, I hear a deafening thwack. With horror, I realize the sound is the impact of my head striking the tree just as everything fades to black.