And there was still the problem of having to face everyone and tell them about it. All day, he had stubbornly cherished a hope that he would find a solution that could be done at night when everyone was asleep. But there was nothing. The book was useless.
Try as he might, Illya could not think through the possible unfolding of events without coming to an abrupt and violent halt right at the point where he stood up on the steps and admitted to them that his plan was a failure.
He paced, embroiled in frustration and regrets.
As night fell, he did not go to the central fires. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, and he knew that people would notice he was missing, but there was no way he could sit calmly in the circle and pretend that nothing was wrong.
He needed advice and from someone wiser than him. Talking to his mother was out of the question, Samuel too. He thought briefly of going to his Aunt Ada then shuddered to think what she must think of him at the moment, with her son locked in jail.
He decided to walk, hoping that the air would clear his mind, which was threatening to spiral out of control with fear. He was grateful that it was late; he would be less likely to run into anyone. He walked along the perimeter of the village, following the wall, thinking back to the day he had found the book. He had risked so much to bring it home. He should have seen even then that it was dangerous, bad luck; the Terrors had nearly caught him because of it.
Maybe it would have been better for everyone if they had eaten him that night after all.
After a short while, he reached the fields. The white patches would have spread today. He hesitated, watching the plants from a distance for a while. He didn’t want to look, but he had to see how much they had grown to guess how much time he had left.
He had crouched among the leaves to examine them in the moonlight when he heard voices coming from the other end of the field. He caught his breath and his body froze.
Were they looking at the plants? Had they found the mold before he had even had the chance to come forward?
Moving as quietly as he could, Illya advanced, staying crouched low among the leaves.
“But what we do agree on is that we have to do something,” said a woman’s voice that he didn’t recognize immediately.
“I don’t know about all those curses and stuff. I just know when I asked if it was always going to be this way, or if I could hunt again sometimes, I didn’t get an answer.” Illya’s heart sank when he recognized the voice as Charlie’s. He knew that Charlie had been unhappy, but he hadn’t thought the man would actually turn against him.
“Maybe it brings curses and maybe it doesn’t,” said a man’s voice. “What matters is what are we going to do about it?”
“I don’t know about this,” another woman said.
“What do mean? You agreed this afternoon when I asked you to come,” the first voice pleaded. Illya listened again. His heart plummeted as he recognized what he should have known instantly. It was his Aunt Ada.
He had locked up her son; betrayed her in the worst possible way. He deserved her anger, expected it. But still, her defection hit him deeply, worse than even Charlie’s had done.
“That book has power. You have to agree. He knew about that flood. Saved everyone that day,” the second woman said, her tone lowering in awe towards the end.
“That doesn’t change that I want to be a hunter again someday,” Charlie said. “And my son, my boy should learn to hunt too. The way things are, he never will. He won’t ever do anything but dig the fields. Doesn’t feel right.”
“If the book is from the gods, we shouldn’t go against what it says,” the woman answered.
“It’s not from the gods. It’s from the Olders. And what did they know?” Ada said.
“Well, you can’t read it, can you?” the woman said. Illya should have felt happy to hear someone defending him, but, instead, the woman’s stubborn belief in him made him feel worse than ever. No one would be defending him for long.
At any moment, one of them could look at the plants too closely. Bits of white dust could have even flaked off and landed on their shoes.
“Of course not.” Ada sighed. “It doesn’t matter. What does is what he is doing, not why. I’ve known that boy since he was no more than a twinkle, and he isn’t himself, none of this is like him.”
“We don’t need to argue. What we need are more people. We can’t do anything violent, not with those Enforcers. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We should keep this quiet, just talk to as many as we can, see who might join us. If we can get enough, we can confront the Leader with that. He won’t be able to ignore us then,” Charlie said. Illya had heard enough; he crept away.
He got up before dawn, although his vision was blurred and his head was groggy from the late night. He dreamed of the disease taking over, spreading so rapidly he could see it advancing across the leaves. But when he got to the field, the white growth was minimal; there was still time. Relief hit him with unexpected intensity, and he sank to his knees among the plants, forgetting to care if anyone could see him.
After a while, he pulled himself together and dunked his head in the water of the irrigation trough. With new resolve, he made his way to the breakfast fires, determined to take control of the situation. On his way, he passed the stone house.
He stopped in the path. Benja was in there. Illya stared at the light of the sunrise glinting off the bits of broken glass still stuck in the edges of its boarded windows. He wondered if he should go inside and see him.
People walking by looked at him curiously.
Illya tapped his foot on the ground. Water ran off his hair and dripped into the dust at his feet.
It would do no good to go in, he decided. Nothing could come of it besides more yelling. He would deserve it, but it couldn’t do anything to help now. He ducked his head and turned away.
Footsteps approached, and he turned to see Sabelle. Dawn had barely reached the top of the full-leafed maple. Morning sun, lancing through the mist, danced on the grass she was crossing as if its purpose was to light up the places where her feet stepped.
She looked up as she came near. Her face was streaked with soot. For the first time, he noticed that her clothes were heavily stained from the work of cooking. From her fingers to her sleeves, rolled up at the elbow, her skin was red from scrubbing pots and working in the heat.
He swallowed. She was still beautiful underneath the soot. She smiled at him. It hit him in the belly with the force of a punch. Despite it all, she still had a smile for him. She still thought that he was trying to do something good. His stomach clenched in shame.
“Hi,” she said.
The small smile was devastating. Soon, Illya would have no choice but to tell everyone about the disease, whether he had a plan to fix it or not. When that happened, the smile would be gone. He was sure of it.
Suddenly, he realized he would never have a better chance than this moment to tell her how he felt.
In a few days, he was going to die. He could see no way around it.
She might like Conna better; she might even laugh at him. But going to his death and never letting her know would be much worse.
Illya reached out and took her hand. The skin of her palm was rough from work. The morning air was cool and smelled like damp grass. He held her hand in his carefully.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wanting to tell her everything, to apologize before it was too late.
Her eyes were wide and very blue. They held his gaze; though the little smile faded. She did not drop his hand.
“Why?” she asked.
His voice caught, and he found that he couldn’t answer. He shook his head.
“You’ve always done what you had to do,” she said, gazing up at him. Without stopping to think, he leaned in closer to her. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes burned with intensity.