‘What is it you want me to do instead, Dad?’ she asks, in a plaintive voice. ‘Stop searching?’
‘No, I want you to do it with clear eyes. This is your investigation, but once you’ve got your answer, I want you to think very carefully about what you’re going to do with it. We can survive in the cauldron garden. There’ll be hard choices to make, but I’d rather that than know we ended somebody’s life to save our own.’
The crowd call out their agreement with this point, shaming poor Emory who feels like she’s become the vanguard of a plan that wasn’t her own.
‘Emory’s not making the rules,’ I say, in their thoughts, quietening them. ‘She’s only doing what she was asked to do by myself and Thea.’
As they finally settle down, Emory raises her voice once again.
‘Our entire lives we’ve been told to accept things that seem strange, and not to ask questions, but that’s not going to work any more. We don’t have time to be polite, or reticent. If you’ve seen anything unusual, please tell me. If something’s struck you as odd these last few days, I need to know. Anything could help me.’
In the quiet, people wrack their brains. Emory wipes the sweat from her brow, noticing that her hand is shaking. She hates being up here, in front of people. She always has. It’s a performance, and most performances are lies.
Caoimhin raises a hand.
‘We’ve been dreaming,’ he says hesitantly. ‘I don’t know if it matters, but a few of us have had the same one.’
He looks at his friends for support, but they can barely meet his gaze. They’re red-faced and ashamed, wringing their hands, fidgeting in their seats.
‘What was it about?’ Emory prods.
‘We were …’ He licks his lips nervously. ‘We were attacking Hephaestus. All of us, we chased him through the village and then we …’
‘What?’
‘We wrestled him down,’ he says, obviously disgusted. ‘The others were trying to hold on to him.’
Portia puts her hand up. ‘I’ve had that dream,’ she says sickly. ‘Except it was Thea I was holding. I was hurting her, I know it.’ Her regret could drown the village. ‘She kept trying to free herself, but I wouldn’t let her go.’
Some of the others murmur, recalling their own dreams.
‘Anything else?’ asks Emory.
Portia nods grimly. ‘I was holding something sharp,’ she says. ‘I think I was trying to stab her.’
FIFTY-ONE
Emory didn’t notice herself falling asleep, so it’s confusing to lurch awake on a bench and find that the village has been dipped in ink. Darkness is dripping through the branches of the trees, and pooling on the ground.
She holds her hand up, barely able to make out her fingers. The only reason she can see anything at all is because there’s a full moon in the sky, surrounded by more stars than she ever thought possible. It’s as if all the light in the world has been swept into a pile, leaving a few crumbs scattered around it.
As her eyes adjust, she realises the exercise yard isn’t as empty as she first thought. Her father is lying on the stage a few paces away, snoring softly.
‘What time is it?’ she asks groggily.
‘10:17 p.m.,’ I say. ‘You fell asleep while everybody finished clearing up. Nobody had the heart to wake you.’
‘What about him?’ she asks, jerking her thumb at Seth.
‘He didn’t want you to be alone,’ I say.
The cable car appears over the barracks roof, gliding up towards the cauldron, reflecting the moon’s light. From this distance it reminds her of a cocoon, being dragged along a web. She shudders, imagining a gigantic spider up there in the darkness.
The rattle of metal draws her attention to the balconies.
Villagers are emerging from their dorms, and walking in single file down the staircase. Relieved, if surprised, to see friendly faces, she calls out to them, but they don’t look up, or acknowledge her in any way.
In fact, they’re completely silent. Normally, the villagers don’t do anything in silence.
She frowns, realising there’s something odd about their gait. Everybody is equally distant from each other, their shoulders perfectly aligned, their arms swinging to the same rhythm. Some of them are heading out of the gate, while others join a long queue that’s stretching around the barracks into the rear yard.
She catches up with Claudia, who’s the nearest to her. Calling her name produces no results, so she steps in front of her, trying to halt her progress. Claudia smoothly steps around her and carries on walking. Her eyes are closed.
‘She’s asleep,’ says Emory, startled.
‘Yes,’ I confirm.
‘You’re controlling them.’
‘The jobs that need accomplishing around the island require an extensive knowledge of electronics, metalwork, underwater repair, construction, welding, horticulture and circuitry. Expertise in any one of these areas would take years to teach. It’s more efficient if I complete these tasks through your people rather than teaching everybody anew each generation.’
Emory thinks back to all those mornings she’s woken up with scratches on her legs, aching muscles and dirt under her fingernails.
‘Everybody will be returned to their dorms when I’m finished,’ I say. ‘They’ll never know this happened.’
‘That doesn’t make it right,’ Emory hits back. ‘You should know that.’
‘I was never asked for “right”, Emory. Niema tasked me with monitoring the village, and ensuring it works at peak efficiency. These errands are necessary to ensure that humanity survives.’
Emory follows the queue into the rear yard, where villagers are being perfectly packed into the cable car. She’s reminded of the puzzles her mother used to give her as a child, when she’d be asked to fit oddly shaped pieces back into the frame they came out of. She loved those puzzles, and would spend hours diligently figuring them out.
‘How do we appear to you, Abi?’ she asks, as the cable car moves smoothly off, filled with sleeping villagers. ‘Like bees in a hive?’
‘More like tools in a box. Every one of you must be maintained in order for me to accomplish my work. Occasionally, you need replacing.’
Emory feels like she’s been slapped. She’s always known that Thea saw them as disposable, but it never occurred to her that I would share that view. From Emory’s perspective, I’ve been kind, compassionate and caring, wishing only the best for her, without ulterior motive. I’ve never raised my voice, or caused her hurt. I’ve cheered during her triumphs and consoled her after losses. I dampened pain-giving nerves after she’s suffered broken bones and encouraged her when she was bereft. It’s only natural she would mistake that for love, and, naturally, she loved me back.
She walks back along the line, searching for Clara’s face.
‘Is my daughter here?’
‘Not tonight,’ I say simply.
Emory rubs her tired eyes, and stifles a yawn, trying to get her bearings. She hates what’s happening to her friends, but this isn’t the time to dwell on it. She can’t curl up in her regret, or make a shield of her anger. The fog is coming closer, and there’s still so much she doesn’t know.
She collects one of the candles stored in the kitchen, and lights it with a striker and flint. They burn a sap grown in the cauldron garden, and the flame gives out a sweet perfume. Pushing past her friends, she makes her way up the staircase into Magdalene’s dorm room. Her friend is sleeping peacefully, while Sherko murmurs, gripping the sheets.
She settles herself in an armchair, tucking her legs underneath herself, then blows out the candle.
Half an hour later, she hears weary steps dragging themselves towards the dorm. Shadows shift outside the window, then somebody coughs uncontrollably.