Semper (New Eden)

  SEMPER

  Peter J Dudley

  Copyright © 2012 Peter Dudley

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1469923130

  ISBN-13: 978-1469923130

  DEDICATION

  For Ethan and Sam, inspiration and joy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would not have completed and published this book without the unfailing support and encouragement of a small army of friends, especially Aerin Bender-Stone. Of course, no married man with children could finish any novel without the patient support and inspiration of his family, and for that I deeply thank my wife, Maria, and my two boys, Ethan and Sam. Among the many who helped me along my journey (whether they realized it or not) were longtime writing group members Leslie Carlsen, Julaina Kleist, Arleene Eagling, and Saima Latif; writers and friends Shona Snowden, Chandy Anderson Ross, Jana Andrews, Robin Billings, Stephen Parrish, B. Nagel, Richard Levangie, Sylvia Spruck Wrigley, and numerous others. Extra special thanks go to those who published or honored my writing and who later became my friends: Tiffany Talbott, my very first publisher; Jason Evans, whose Clarity of Night contest introduced me to many of the people listed on this page; and Phoenix Sullivan, who not only published one of my stories but helped light my way along the publishing path. Finally, I must thank those who encouraged me when I was very little and who gave me the foundation I would need later in life: My father, Fred (who also gets credit for the front cover photograph); and my mother, Gretchen; as well as my stepmother, Bebe, who (as my fourth grade teacher) helped me harness my creativity; and my fifth grade teacher at Hopewell Elementary, Mrs. Waldo, who taught me how to make a blank book and fill it with things that never existed before.

  Cover Credit: Wendy Russ

  Table of contents

  SEMPER

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Table of contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Sunset draws us to the lake. I crouch in shadows among the pines and watch a brown hare creep from behind a log, test the wind, hop to the water’s edge. A hundred yards down the muddy beach, two deer tiptoe from the trees, black silhouettes like phantoms in the darkening twilight. One dips its head to drink, the other stands tall with ears perked. They won’t smell me in my hiding place, but they might have heard me.

  The rabbit perks with a sudden jerk. There’s a whish of a sound with a metallic zing not far from me. The rabbit tenses to spring away, leaps, and goes limp in midair. It drops to the mud with a sad thud and skids on its face to a dead stop. That, I think, was unexpected. I hold my breath and try to blend deeper into my shadows because it’s unlikely that anyone else from Southshaw would venture this far north.

  I wait only moments before a shadow in the trees becomes a silhouette and then solidifies into a person, thirty yards from me. It’s too dark to see him clearly, and he moves with a quick calmness from the trees to the dead hare. He walks so quietly on the soft turf that I barely hear even the swish of his trousers or the squelch of his boots in the mud when he reaches his prey.

  He crouches, glances up and down the beach. His gaze rests momentarily on the deer, which are watching him with tensed muscles. He grabs the rabbit by its ears and pulls a blade sharply from its neck, then rinses the bright metal in the water.

  When he stands, I see his long, black hair for the first time, gathered back behind his head like a horse’s tail. He holds still for a moment, gazing over the beautiful, gray-green lake stretching out before us. His neck is slender and graceful, his jaw smooth yet delicate. His skin is darker than normal, his stature shorter. And then, with the slightest of gasps, I realize the figure is not a man at all. It is a girl.

  She has heard me. She glances in my direction, but I can tell by the quick, subtle jerks of her head that she can’t pick me out of the shadows. It is a mutant from the north, a girl mutant wandered into the outskirts of Southshaw. Were I only a week older, after my sixteenth birthday and the Wifing, I would be bound by our ancient law to kill her. I hold my breath and see both the rabbit hanging dead in her hands and the glint of new moonlight on her blade.

  Her head stops moving. Her body goes rigid. Her hand holding the blade rises slowly. Now she has seen me, and I am stuck in my crevice. If I move, she will skewer me faster than that poor hare. My only chance is to talk. I have been taught that the mutants speak a language similar to ours, though no living Southshawan has ever met one. As I draw a breath to speak, one of the deer on the other end of the beach slumps and falls to the ground with a thud. The other darts away into the forest.

  The mutant girl spins to identify the noise. She must feel the same danger I feel. More, perhaps, exposed and heathen as she is. She is a brutal huntress, her kind as wild as the wolves and black bear that rove these forested peaks.

  For a moment, there is nothing, Only the deer crumpled at the water’s edge, tiny waves caressing its fur. The mutant crouches and in the deep gray of the fading twilight is easily overlooked among the large rocks on the lake shore.

  Two other figures emerge at the far end of the beach, near the fallen deer. These two have faces and hands as pale as the moon itself. They wear dark clothes but look like ghosts. Ghosts. My blood runs cold from the legends I learned as a child. Ghost people, neither living nor dead, were said to steal children who wander too far into the woods. They drag their prey back to hidden caves in the hills and eat them alive, bit by bit.

  I did not believe in them.

  The ghosts saunter casually over the smooth, muddy sand to the fallen deer and retrieve an arrow from its side. They talk to each other in low tones. Their murmurs are soft, sounding almost like grunts and moans from this distance. As one kneels and lashes the deer’s feet, the other scans the forest and the beach. His gaze stops on the mutant crouched near me.

  Without warning, he barks and launches himself into a sprint toward us. He runs faster than either the mutant or I expect, and by the time she tries to escape, she is too late. He raises his bow and looses an arrow on the run, the shaft missing her and shattering on a rock nearby.

  “Stop!” He shouts the word, clear and menacing. He’s nearly on top of her now, and I see she has no chance of escape. “Stop, or you die.” Although his shout echoes throughout the bay, his voice is cold and empty.

  In one motion, she stops and turns, the rabbit swaying wildly in one hand while she raises the other next to her ear. The blade glints in the moonlight. Her arm is drawn up like a snake tensed to strike. But the ghost-man is already upon her. With his bow he swats her arm down as he slams his body full into hers. She flies backwards onto the dirt with a whoof, the ghost-man landing full on top of her.

  I stay motionless and watch her struggle under him momentarily until he has her arms secured. The other ghost-man arrives and lashes her hands behind her back. This all happens in a matter of seconds, and she gives up her struggle quickly.

  They turn her over and sit her up. She kicks dirt at them with a grunt, prompting them to lash her ankles as well. She is panting, but the ghost-men stand over her as if unsure what to do. She glances from one to the other, then back. There is a wildness in her wi
de eyes, but also an intelligence I did not expect to see. They’re only a few yards away from me. The ghost-men squat with their backs to me, studying the mutant. They sit, unmoving, for several seconds.

  “Well?” The mutant girl spits the word at them, but they are unmoved. “Well? What now?” Her voice is strong but smooth, fluid in tone but sturdy.

  One of the ghost-men glances at the other. “She raises a good question, don’t you think?”

  They talk? In the legends, the ghosts do not speak. If they make any sound at all, it is the moaning of the wind in a cavern, or the screech of hawk as it hunts.

  “Indeed she does, Tom.”

  And they have names? Normal names like Tom? I find myself so perplexed by what I’m seeing that it’s difficult to listen to the actual words.

  “Indeed I do. If you like,” the mutant says, “I can also provide a good answer.”

  “Which would be?” This is the one that so far has no name.

  “Which would be, untie me, give me back my dinner, and let me go.”

  The two ghost-men contemplate for a moment and look at each other. Tom speaks first. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can do that.”

  Of course not, I think. They have to drag you back to their cave and eat you alive, bit by bit. Or perhaps they do that only to normal children, not mutant girls. And this one is clearly no child. I judge her to be about my age, if mutants age as we do.

  The one not named Tom agrees. “Definitely not. I am sorry to inform you, miss, but we have only two choices, I’m afraid.” He speaks calmly and with a clear voice, as if he’s explaining how he tied the knots around her ankles.

  “Then I pick the one where you let me go,” the mutant says.

  The ghost-men chuckle. “You may not want that one, actually,” not-Tom says. “You see, the only way we can let you go is if we kill you first.”

  “Then I pick the other one.”

  “Smart girl, this one.” The two appear not to notice the mutant girl glancing around, taking in every detail. She appears to be wriggling her hands behind her back. I wonder if she has another of those small, deadly blades hidden there, slicing through their cords.

  The two ghost-men retreat a little distance up the shore and talk quietly. One points at the deer, then at their captive. The other points up into the hills, and shakes his head. They seem to be arguing.

  I look back at the girl, who now has her gaze focused directly on me. Her mouth moves, forms some soundless words that I can’t make out. I don’t dare move, even to let her know I failed to understand. She rolls her eyes and mouths the words again, and this time it’s clear: “Help me.”

  My skin crawls as I begin to comprehend what she’s asking me to do. By law, she should already be dead by my own hand. Then I would have to burn her corpse to ensure the contaminants are destroyed. Otherwise, an animal may ingest them, and that animal may be eaten by another animal that ultimately ends up as dinner in a Southshaw home. I’ve learned the lessons well. I do not want to be the one that brings home the epidemic that destroys all of civilization.

  I slowly shake my head side to side and watch surprise and indignation spread across her face. She begins struggling against her ropes again just as the two ghost-men return.

  “Don’t bother, sweetheart, Tom ties the best knots in all Subterra.” They stand over her.

  “True, if I do say so myself,” Tom responds.

  The mutant girl shoots me one quick, last look. Her pleading eyes make my mouth go dry and almost move me to pity. I see in that moment her hope fade and resignation to her fate set in. She stops struggling. She slumps with a sigh.

  “Well?” Her voice is quiet now, defeated. “Well, what now?”

  “It is a good question,” not-Tom says.

  “I feel we’ve had this conversation before,” Tom responds.

  “Just,” the mutant sighs with a quiver, “get it over with.”

  “All right,” says not-Tom. “We’ve decided what we will do. You are our prisoner.”

  “She knows that part. Get on with it.”

  “Right. We’re going to take you with us. When we get back to Subterra, Fobrasse can decide what to do with you.”

  Good, I think. They’re not going to kill her. I can forget all about this.

  “Probably there’ll be a feast.”

  “Yes, very likely.”

  A feast? She seems unmoved by anything they’ve said. She must not know the legends. She must not understand what they’re planning.

  She seems to have given up entirely. She does not look my way again. She does not struggle when they untie her ankles, lift her to her feet. She follows like an obedient dog when they lead her down the beach. Not once does she say a word. After a few minutes, it’s all over. She has followed them into the woods where they first emerged. They carried off both the deer and the rabbit.

  As I climb from my hiding place, I see her blade half buried in the mud a few feet from where she sat. I pick it up, astonished at its quality. Perfectly smooth and as sharp as any knife I’ve ever touched, its double edged blade twists from the point into a blunt butt. It has no handle exactly, and it’s remarkably light and strong. I try to imagine the wild heathen that created this weapon. It’s not fitting together.

  As I look across the beach to where the imprint of the dead deer still marks the sand, another question swirls, nebulous and unformed in my mind. At its core is why, but I can’t quite get the rest of it yet. My feet begin walking, then jogging, and finally running toward the gap in the trees where the three figures disappeared minutes earlier. When I’m at a dead run, twigs and pine needles whipping my arms and face, the question completes itself. Why? Why did she not tell them I was hiding among the boulders?

  CHAPTER 2

  How far ahead? I follow the bank of a stream up the steep hillside, along the deer path. I can see the telltales of their passage—scuffed boot prints in the dirt, crushed grass, snapped blades on the ferns. They aren’t hiding their tracks, but why should they? They aren’t afraid of the one deer they left behind.

  I’ve used this path before, wondering at the carved stone steps along the way. No one in Southshaw knows of them because it’s forbidden to most to come this far north. And there are no stories of these waterfalls, or the emerald colored bay below, or the stone steps. Did the ghost men carve them eons ago? Or were they here even longer ago, before the War?

  As I climb along the river up and out of the valley, up through the forest, I realize how exhausted I am from two long days away from home. I go quickly, but I’m breathing hard. I’m making too much noise. I slow, and while I walk I nibble at the dried lamb from my pack.

  Which girl’s father had gifted me that lamb? A girl from our southern farmlands. The one with the wide, stupid grin and too many teeth. The one with the strong, calloused hands and the nose round and crinkled like a walnut. I can never remember her name. Her father is delusional if he thinks I’ll pick his daughter over the others in the Wifing. Even though his lamb jerky is the best in Southshaw.

  I’ve reached the top of the upper falls and am now deep in the forest. Even though the tall pines and redwoods catch the dim moonlight and only drop darkness on the trail, the ghost men have been so casual that their trail might as well be marked by a red ribbon. It’s clear that they moved fast, much faster than I can go. How could they, especially carrying the deer and their prisoner?

  While I follow their track straight through the woods, ignoring the cacophony of night birds and wind in the branches and yips of coyotes up near the Wall, my thoughts meander through the coming two weeks. Ten girls, one from each of the villages. Some have been selected by lottery. Others by competition. The nine that I don’t select may enjoy some celebrity for a time but ultimately will return to their small lives.

  Only once has Semper-son chosen more than one girl in the Wifing. Technically, there is nothing in the Book of Laws that forbids it. I could choose all ten, if I wanted! It would be handy to have
a wife capable of making such delicious lamb jerky. And a beauty like Kitta, and someone to talk to like Freda. But verse twelve in the Book of Truths prohibits it. While it is man’s nature to love many women, it is his duty to bind himself spiritually to the one woman whose heart has chosen him for love.

  Uncle Darius and his revisionist group would tell me this means I could have as many wives as I want, as long as they all love me. And in Darius’s book, every woman in Southshaw must, by the nature of woman, love the Semper. That seems wrong, somehow. My father has told me I should pick only one girl. How would my mother feel if she were not the only First Wife? I wish I could wait another few years. Why do I have to marry at sixteen? I won’t be Semper for another ten years.

  I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve been too careless, letting my attention drift with my thoughts in the night breezes. I’ve come deep into the woods, walking an hour or more. The land has sloped steadily upward, and the underbrush is growing thin. I’m miles from the Wall yet, so I know I’m still in clean lands, but this is all unfamiliar to me now.

  And there are voices ahead in the blackness. Or there were, moments ago.

  It’s late. My eyes are half unfocused with exhaustion, and my mouth is dry. I should have stopped and refilled my flask before the trail diverged from the stream. Stupid, Dane. If your father knew you were in the wilderness, tracking two ghost men and a mutant this far from Southshaw, he’d lock you up for a year. You are the only Heir Southshaw has. What if you die? What if you are taken to a cave and eaten alive? It’s not just your own life you’re risking, you fool. It's the future of what's left of humanity.

  I try to focus on the night, the sounds around me. It’s very quiet. The voices have stopped, and the typical night sounds are hushed. Maybe the mutant girl told them about me. Maybe she told them other mutants would come after her. Maybe the ghosts are on their way back to capture me right now.

  I crouch where I am and listen. The distant falls in the valley below raise a constant, soft hiss. My right hand moves slowly to the knife at my belt, unbuttons the strap holding it there. Quiet as I can, I step and crawl off the path, to the left, in a broad arc. I try to keep the point where the voices seemed to be at the center of my circle as I make my way around, heading farther uphill as I go.