The Unspoken: Book One in the Keres Trilogy (4 page)

There
’
s a quiet knock on my door. I jump at the now unfamiliar noise. The Mothers never knock, they always ring the bell tone. Doe gently opens the door and sticks her head around the edge.

“
Will you come out?
”

Suddenly shy, I hesitate, reminded of the day Doe tripped in the canteen, her tray flying across the floor, spreading her lunch ration as it went. We couldn
’
t have been more than six years old. In unison, the rest of us went to her before the laughter in the room could make her feel alone enough to cry. Picking her and the tray up, we all kissed and hugged and cuddled her. All of us. The Mothers watched us from their positions on the edges of the room with grave faces.

If some other girl had tripped, The Mothers would have come forward to clean her up and set her right. Perhaps the girls, or at least one girl, in her Play Group would have gone to help as well. Never the boys. It is unheard of for boys to caress and soothe a girl outside the privacy of their own residence block. And especially not one they weren
’
t Banded to. I remember feeling the hard floor on my knees as we cleaned the mess of food. When I glanced up, I saw a Mother watching me, the corner of her eye twitching with concentration. The Heavy
’
s fingers slinking around the back of my neck were as cold and hard as the slate floor of the canteen.

What
’
s wrong with me? PG3456 is feet away from me, I am free to speak to them, touch them, look at them and I am suddenly afraid? Doe seems unfazed by my lack of movement and just leaves the door ajar. Shaking myself for being so stupid, I lunge for it and swing it open.

Standing around our common room are my five friends. They are not dressed like gods now but like all the other teenagers in Chelon. We take each other in for a second and slowly, as if introducing myself for the first time, I reach out to shake hands. The Heavy is shoved aside and the shyness falls away, and we collapse into each other with tears welling up in our eyes.

“
This is idiotic,
”
Frehn says as he rubs the back of his hand across his cheek. He doesn
’
t pull away though. Some of us give an anxious laugh out of relief. It must make an odd picture. Six people, just pushed into adulthood, grouped in a circle, arms on each others
’
shoulders, laughing and sniffing and crying.

No one says anything else, sure that The Mothers are monitoring us in some way. I try to absorb everyone, all the changes time has made. I want to be familiar with their faces again. There are hard adult angles replacing the soft roundness on noses and cheeks I remember. The boys are unable to sit still after being caged in their rooms and smelling fresh air at the Oath this morning. At least the restlessness is familiar. Wex is the first to suggest we walk outside before we join the line for uniforms.

Now alone and not in the Oath line, I am free to look about as we leave our block and walk to the elevators. When I notice something out of place, a different type of flower in one of the numerous container gardens or a new pattern in the hall tiles it jars me. It
’
s as if Chelon shoves me backward with each step.

My body isn
’
t used to moving this much and it begins to protest loudly by the time we reach the Quad. Merit doesn
’
t seem to be faring much better so we rest in the grass. My senses on the verge of overload, I close my eyes and just smell the world. It smells a lot better than my terra-cotta pot bed. An old feeling of relative freedom surges up within me and I smile to myself.

PG3456 has spent hours just like this, sprawled out in the grass, not talking. Merit would reach out now and again to be sure we were all still there. I would weave grasses together to make animals for Doe to play with. She was so much smaller than us, she became something of a pet. Wex would stroke her back like she was a calf or a colt.

The black diamond pin scratches my scalp when I shift in the grass to look at Doe now. She is still small for our age, but the Solace doesn
’
t seem to have stunted her. She actually looks more toned than she ever did before. Her hair is swept back into a braid, no longer in the elaborate style from this morning. She moves her head to look slowly around the Quad. I imagine she is searching for things that have changed, things that have stayed the same. A sad mien on her face, as if she regrets our returned freedom to roam.

“
We should get in line,
”
I say. Avoiding the rest of today
’
s tasks is only letting the Heavy press into me again. Everyone else knows what they will be doing tomorrow and has a general idea what they will be wearing during Service hours. Each one has landed in a Service that will be a clear benefit to us if there really is a plan to escape Chelon. My Service, my contribution is unknown, unspoken.

We know who is an Unspoken by their distinctive hairstyles and tattoos, or their black diamonds if they are still in the early apprentice stages. The Unspoken is not what they are officially called. They don
’
t have a Service title, at least not one that
’
s known. They are still members of their Play Groups, of course, but beyond reporting to a room in the basement of the Gratis Building, their Service to Chelon is a complete mystery. Most people don
’
t think about them much because there are so few of them and so little is known about their activities it makes for poor conversation around the common rooms. I always thought of the black diamond ornaments on Oath day as more symbolic of dread. Dread that one day it would be my turn to be assigned a Service and PG3456 would no longer spend entire days together. We couldn
’
t all land in Nutriment Cultivation, even before the Solace.

Once we reach the Necessities Center, an enormous marble building covered in scroll work and statues, there are only a handful of people left in line for uniforms. I reach the counter first and hand the Keeper my ticket; he doesn
’
t even look at it. He was probably at the Oath and knows who I am. All of Chelon will know who I am now. He hands me a matte black box with a mother of pearl clasp.
“
Instructions on the card,
”
he wheezes as he looks me up and down. I manage to whisper a thank you and move over so Doe can present her ticket.

When Merit has received his box, a straw hamper held closed with a leather loop, it
’
s noon. No one is hungry, as the boxes are consuming our whole attention. Our new schedules aren
’
t active until tomorrow so we go back to our block, uncertain if there would even be a meal for us in the canteen. We walk slowly down the streets and through the Quad in a very traditional and submissive two rows, girls in front, boys in back. Not many Play Groups walk in two lines anymore, but they are not being watched by The Mothers for signs of an emotional relapse either. We talk about all the robes from the morning, the potential for a good harvest, the feast planned for that night. We reminisce over past years
’
performance displays each Service line provides for entertainment while everyone gorges themselves on food- there will be no rationed amounts tonight. Our chatter is so polite we could be any Play Group. No one would guess what lies beneath our friendly, arm
’
s length banter.

The door shut firmly in our common room,
we place our boxes on the table. Harc asks,
“
Who wants to go first?
”
in an over-bright voice. No one makes a move. She reaches out and pulls the knotted rubber band off her shiny plastic box. Inside lays a neatly folded blue jumpsuit, slippery white underclothes, shoes and head wrap. The included card illustrates how to wear each piece.
“
Well. It
’
s not the color of my dreams but it compliments my hair rather well, doesn
’
t it?
”
She holds the jumpsuit up to her chin and looks at us with a raised eyebrow.

How is she able make jokes? And how am I able to laugh at them? How can we just chat lightly like we were never in Solace, like we never watched The Mother hit her? Like I never tried to gouge out a pair of cold eyes in retaliation? How am I doing this? I
’
m back to going through the motions. Opening Service boxes one by one, looking at all the contents, and laughing. It feels forced and vulgar.

My box is the only one still left to open. Everyone has been looking at it since we sat down, no one really wanting to know. I can
’
t remember seeing an Unspoken in anything but the standard issue clothing everyone in Chelon wears. I look around the room. I want to see it one more time before everything is changed by what
’
s in this black box. Taking a deep breath, I press the clasp and the lid swings open. Resting on top, there is the instruction card with a woman dressed in a formfitting black suit with terra-cotta orange patches on the arms, legs and torso, high black boots and a black leather belt resting at an angle on the painted model
’
s hips. When I pick up the card, it unfolds showing more instructions for different versions of the uniform, a short skirt and jacket, a long loose skirt with leather pouches dangling from the belt, one with a shirt and not much else, one thick and lined with fur with zippers up the arms and legs. I reach into the box and pull out the first suit pictured on the card followed by the boots and belt. There
’
s nothing else in the box.

“
I guess the other ones are seasonal,
”
is all I can think of to say. How can I possibly serve Chelon in a skintight suit like this? It
’
s so small, it doesn
’
t even look like I could pull it past my thighs. The material feels dense and unbreathable. A claustrophobic feeling starts to close me in.

Wex reaches out for the belt, gently pulling my fingers open so he can take it from me. He looks at it with interest. Loaded with pockets, loops and pouches, none of which have anything in them.
“
A belt like that would be dead useful in the fields. Better than the issued sling bag anyway. A bag, or even our everyday packs, could really get in the way when you
’
re plowing or harvesting the grains. If that strap gets caught on anything, you could lose an arm in the combine.
”
I can feel Doe
’
s hand on mine, she seems so far away, why won
’
t she stand still...

“
Catch her, Wex. She
’
s going to faint.
”

I do not faint. I vomit. Stomach acid and bile mostly, but there
’
s also something resembling the soup I had last night.
“
Sorry,
”
I choke as I spit the last of it on the floor.

“
You just aren
’
t used to all this activity,
”
Doe says soothingly.

“
Neither are the rest of you and you aren
’
t tossing up last night
’
s dinner,
”
I rasp, looking up from under the curtain of hair that
’
s fallen across my face to see all of them exchange glances.
“
What?
”
I demand, aware of a change in the mood. It
’
s gone from sympathetic to concerned.