Monsters of Men

“Yes,” I whisper back. “I’ve been thinking that all day.”

“I think their Noise is more than just communication,” Bradley says, his whisper full of marvel. “I think it’s who they are. I think they are their voice. And if we could learn to speak it the way they do, if we could really learn to join their voice . . .”

He trails off, his Noise vibrant and shimmering.

“What?” I say.

“Well,” he says, “I wonder if we wouldn’t be halfway to becoming one people.”

[TODD]

I watch Viola sleep in the projeckshun. I said no to her staying the night up there, so did Simone and Mistress Coyle. She stayed anyway, and the scout ship flew back at nightfall. She’s left the front of her tent open to the fire and I can see her in there, coughing, tossing and turning, and my heart reaches out again for her, reaches out and wants to be there.

I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she’s thinking of me. I wonder how long this is all gonna take so we can start living peaceful lives and get her well and I can take care of her and hear her talk to me in person and not just over a comm and she could read my ma’s book to me again.

Or I could read it to her.

“Todd?” the Mayor says. “I’m ready if you are.”

I nod at him and go into my tent. I take my ma’s book outta my rucksack and run my hands over the cover like I always do, over where Aaron’s knife sliced into it on the night it saved my life. I open up the pages to look at the writing, the writing of my ma’s own hand, written in the days after I was born and before she was killed in the Spackle War or by the Mayor himself or by the suicide lie he’s been trying to say is true and I boil a little at him again, boil at the anthill of letters spilling cross the pages, dense and skittery, already changing my mind about having him do this and–

My dearest son, I read, the words suddenly there on the page, clear as anything, Not a month old and already life is readying its challenges for you!

I swallow, my heart beating fast, my throat clenching shut, but I don’t take my eyes off the page, cuz there she is, there she is–

The corn crop failed, son. Second year in a row, which is a bad blow, since the corn feeds Ben and Cillian’s sheep and Ben and Cillian’s sheep feed all of us–

I can feel the low hum, feel the Mayor behind me at the opening of my tent, putting his learning inside my head, sharing it with me–

– and if that weren’t bad enough, son, Preacher Aaron has started to blame the Spackle, the shy little creachers who never look like they eat enough. We’ve been hearing reports from Haven about Spackle problems there, too, but our military man, David Prentiss, says we should respect them, that we shouldn’t look for scapegoats for a simple crop failure–

“You said that?” I say, not taking my eyes off the page.

“If your mother says I did,” he says, his voice straining. “I can’t keep this up for ever, Todd. I’m sorry, but the effort it takes–”

“Just another second,” I say.

But that’s you waking up again in the next room. How funny that it’s always you calling me from over there that stops me talking to you right here. But that means I always get to talk to you, son, so how could I be any happier? As always, my strong little man, you have–

And then the words slide off the page, outta my head, and I gasp from the shock of it and tho I can see what’s coming next (all my love, she says, she says I have all her love), it gets harder, knottier and thicker, the forest of words closing up in front of me.

I turn to the Mayor. He’s got sweat across his brow and I realize I do, too.

(and again, there’s that faint hum still in the air–)

(but it ain’t bothering me, it ain’t–)

“Sorry, Todd,” he says, “I can only do it for so long.” He smiles. “But I’m getting better.”

I don’t say nothing. My breath is heavy and so is my chest and my ma’s words are crashing round my head like a waterfall and there she was, there she was talking to me, talking to me, saying her hopes for me, saying her love–

I swallow.

I swallow it away again.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

“Well, that’s fine, Todd,” the Mayor says, keeping his voice low. “That’s just fine.”

And I’m realizing, as we’re standing there in my tent, how tall I’ve been getting–

I can see nearly straight into his eyes–

And once more I’m seeing the man in front of me–

(the tiniest hum, almost pleasant–)

Not the monster.

He coughs. “You know, Todd, I could–”

“Mr President?” we hear.

The Mayor backs outta my tent and I follow him quick in case something’s happening.

“It’s time,” Mr Tate says, standing there at attenshun. I look back at the projeckshun but nothing’s changed. Viola’s still asleep in her tent, everything else is like it was before.

“Time for what?” I say.

“Time,” the Mayor says, pulling himself up straighter, “to win the argument.”

“What?” I say. “What do you mean, win the argument? If Viola’s in danger–”

“She is, Todd,” he says, smiling. “But I’m going to save her.”

{VIOLA}

“Viola,” I hear, and I open my eyes and wonder for a moment where I am.

There’s firelight coming from past my feet, warming me in the loveliest way, and I’m lying on a bed which seems to be made of woven shavings of wood but that doesn’t even begin to describe how soft it is–

“Viola,” Bradley whispers again. “Something’s going on.”

I sit up too fast, and my head spins. I have to lean forward with my eyes closed to catch my breath again.

“The Sky got up about ten minutes ago,” he whispers. “He hasn’t come back.”

“Maybe he just had to go to the toilet,” I say, my head starting to throb. “I’m assuming they do.”

The fire is blinding us a little to the half-circle of Spackle beyond it, most of them bedded down for the night. I pull the blankets around me tighter. They seem to be made of lichen, like the kind they grow on themselves for clothing, but it’s different up close than I expected, much more like cloth, heavier and very warm.

“There’s more,” Bradley says. “I saw something in their Noise. Not much more than an image. Fleeting and fast, but clear.”