These arguments failed because her parents refused. She was theirs, and they would raise her.
They taught her well. Her father took her into the woods and showed her how to track prey, how to make weapons, and how to field dress the first deer she shot at the age of ten. Her mother taught her how to identify edible plants, how to tan hides and stitch them into clothing, how to render fat and make tallow candles. Her parents also had books, which they taught her to read. She learned of magical realms, of strange customs, of human motivations, good and evil.
For children, there is no such thing as a happy childhood or its opposite. Everything that happens is just one more event in an eventful world. It is adults who look back and praise or curse the years of their youths. Ilona would remember the good times, her parents’ love, their patience as they struggled to understand her and make her understand them. Her child’s mind never registered their isolation from the community that regarded her as a bane, so even though she wasn’t oblivious to the disdain of the others, to her it was normal.
She might have grown up, even made a niche for herself in the village. But she could not escape the festering contempt that only a closed community can inflict upon someone who is different. One day when she was fourteen, a group of villagers seized her, gagged and blindfolded her, and carried her deep into the forest. There, they left her. She had no weapons, no food, and the time of the year was the gathering in preparation for the winter. The nights were getting longer, the days chillier.
At first, she thought this was some sort of game. They’d be back the next day. Or perhaps it was a rite of passage, a coming of adulthood that her parents had described in their halting signs. A ritual by which she could prove her worth. Had she recognized the venom of the community, the depth of their disgust, their fear of her differentness, she might have despaired. But to her, this was their trial, their challenge to prove herself worthy.
She gathered edible leaves and dug for roots. The forest was bountiful, and her parents had taught her how to use what it offered. She waited for the villagers to return, to congratulate her for her initiative, to honour her courage. But nobody came. By the third day, her optimism was turning to fear. Perhaps they had forgotten where they left her, and even now, they were searching, calling out for her even as they knew she would never hear them. Or, the chilling thought began to smolder, maybe they had abandoned her. She knew she was different. Perhaps that had led them to this. To her sacrifice in the deep woods.
She bent and twisted a long willow stem until she could pull it apart. With her teeth, she stripped the bark from the willow and wound it into a long fibre to make a bow. She tore small limbs from other trees, used her teeth to sharpen their ends, and went hunting. That day, she shot a small deer. Her bow was weak, her arrows blunt, so she only wounded it, but she wrapped the bark fibre from her bow around the animal’s neck creating a garrote and twisting it, her young muscles battling the convulsions of the deer until they yielded to death. She found rocks, some with edges that she could use for a crude knife. She ripped open the animal’s abdomen and hacked at its blood vessels, draining it of blood, and she used the rocks again to carve chunks of raw meat from the carcass.
She recalled that when they carried her here, gagged and blindfolded, the warmth of the sun was to her right. She found broken twigs, signs of someone passing. Shouldering the deer carcass, she pushed through the bush, keeping the sun to her left. Later that day, she found a stream. She knew this stream. Her father had brought her here to learn to fish. The next day, she followed the stream into the village where she dumped the carcass on the ground.
The villagers gaped at her as she went to her parents’ house. Nobody was there. She gestured to the others attempting to ask where they were, but nobody responded. Perhaps they had gone looking for her, and they’d be back soon. That night, she was awakened by a flickering light. A group of villagers gathered around the house, carrying torches. They hesitated as if in some indecision before tossing the torches at the base of the house. She scrambled to gather weapons and stuff some clothing into a bag. Her lungs started to burn with the thickening smoke. The house was ablaze, the flames racing up the walls. She charged into the crowd. Slashed with her knife at some of the closer targets. Before they could recover, she fled into the night. She never saw her parents again, never found out what happened to them.
She spent the next eight years as a nomad. She lived off the land, gathering what food she could, hunting whatever was available, and occasionally trading her hunts for additional clothing or weapons. Sometimes she found kindness. An elderly man offered her a place to stay if she would prepare meals for him. That lasted about two weeks before his neighbours threatened him, forcing him to send her on her way. On another occasion, a middle-aged couple took pity on her. Although they wouldn’t let her into their home—she reckoned they feared reprisals from the other members of the community—they did bring her food and extra arrows for her bow.
But there were others. One day, she met a group of three young men. At first, they were friendly, inviting her to sit with them, to have a drink. She joined them but declined the drink. It was alcohol, and her parents had been adamant that she was never to imbibe unless it was with people she knew and trusted. When she refused, they gathered around her, touching her, starting to force themselves on her. One of them grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her to the ground while another one pulled at her pants. Her years of struggle had made her strong. She kicked the second man in the groin and tumbled sideways, freeing herself from the first man’s grip. He swore and charged toward her. The others started to cheer him on, but their yells faded as the man slumped to the ground, blood pouring from his chest. Before they could respond, she attacked. When she walked away, leaving three dead bodies, her only regret was that she would have to find another area for hunting.
She had been walking along another trail when she saw a Peak rover. Before she could hide, they grabbed her and took her to a secluded spot where they raped her and would have killed her, but for Darius.
At her tale, his eyes watered. His life had been hard, but he couldn’t imagine going through what she had to endure. That night, he held her close, swearing to himself she would never suffer again.
24
SUBVERSIVES
Todd Baxter looked out of the hotel room window to the streets of downtown Denver and hoped his cryptic message had worked. A week earlier, he had sent emails to Ellen Sangster and Ross Candale that said, “CCHQ. Sep. 5.” Would they remember? Or worse, would they email him back and ask what was going on.
His mind was in turmoil. He and his friends were slated for execution. Bert had been killed. Part of him was gripped by fear, part by rage. And part by an emotion that was new. Resolve.
The events of the week had forced him to stare into the face of his life. He saw only a void. He had never committed to anything. Even his relationships were casual. In the week since Ellen’s name in the database had slammed him, he had been unable to escape the harsh judgment that he had wasted his life. And the hint that a purpose might be emerging. Elusive, peripheral, but forming.
A knock on the door roused him. Ross and Ellen stood there, smiles wreathing their faces. He embraced them both. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d get the connection.”
“You weren’t sure?” Ellen asked. “CCHQ is an institution.”
Candale said, “Where’s Bert? Isn’t he here yet?”