Chapter II:
What You Don't Know Might Kill You
As Cinda is hit with Mr. Collins' rifle she gives a horrible little cry which might just be the worst thing I've ever heard and goes tumbling out of the seat onto the floor, her hand losing mine and her head smacking hard off the kitchen tiles.
Stupid bitch, Collins' Noise hisses as she struggles to get up, and it's jumping all over her like the words could stomp her to death. Damn mouthy whore.
"What the eff'd you do that for?!" I shout, except I don't say eff, and in my Noise I'm punching his head in but what I'm really doing is getting right down there on the floor with the woman, with Cinda, and I'm helping her up and sitting her back down then rushing to grab a dish rag and I'm putting it on the back of her head where she's started bleeding pretty bad, and what'dya know, it turns out that women bleed just as red as the rest of us.
"Don't talk," Mr. Collins spits at her. "I ain't normally one to hit a woman, but if you keep that shit up around here you'll get worse than that."
Cinda's eyes are all unfocused and she sure as hell ain't talking no more so he's got his way, ain't he. Even though I can feel he's half a mind to start on me, that he'd really like to give me a walloping just once- he's always thinking I'm the way I am cuz my Pa don't hit me hard enough - he thinks better of it and stays put in the doorway, brewing up a tempest in his Noise until we hear the sound of Morpeth's hooves striking the cobbles outside.
When Pa walks into the kitchen he susses out what's happened in an instant and dismisses Mr. Collins, who leaves in a huff. Pa looks down at me, doing the best I can to help Cinda. I give him a little smile.
"Cheers, Pa," I say. He ain't smiling back. He and I help Cinda up off the floor and back into her seat, where he pulls the dishrag away from her bleeding head with a look of revulsion. He pulls a medi-pack I never knew we had out of the highest kitchen cupboard.
"Well, David, I can't say I'm overly impressed with your attempt to keep a safe watch over her."
Any of the pink that was left in my Noise drains right down to a sickly purple, all horrible and motley like a bruise. Pa sends me out to see to Morpheth and the other horses. I linger in the hallway longer than I need to while I get my coat, watching as Pa opens up the medi-pack and drags a chair beside Cinda, who's still not really with it after taking such a crack to the head. As he brushes her hair away from the wound and starts bandaging her up I hear her whimper a little, not because of the pain but because she's scared of him touching her. He don't say nothing at all about that, and who on or above New World's got a clue what he's thinking about it?
"You'll have to keep still, Miss," he says, neither his voice nor his Noise giving anything away.
"Cinda," I say, the word coming out before I really think anything of it. They both look at me as blank as one of Todd Hewitt's sheep might. "Her name's Cinda."
Pa frowns.
"The horses," he says shortly, and gets back to work. Cinda looks at me like she can't stand for me to leave but I gotta do as I'm told so I go out to the stables.
I take Morpeth's saddle off him and clean the muck off his hooves and brush him down again the way Pa likes. I know it's stupid to hate a horse, but I can't help it. Most horses don't think much of anything, but this one seems to think he's in charge of the whole bloody world.
Submit, he's thinking, in that skittish horse way. Master's Boy Colt steps back.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I tell him, brushing him a little harder than I need to, "you ain't the boss of me."
He lets out an angry sort of whinny so I back up all the same, leaving him less fodder than he's used to out of spite and going to feed my little colt, who ain't big enough to ride yet but who's growing up great.
"Look sharp, Deadfall," I say, but the horse just ignores me. He's supposed to be my birthday present for when I become a man but the horses have all given birth by this time of the year so I ended up getting him early, when he was still shaky on his legs and hadn't learned enough words to have proper Noise yet. He's a handsome thing, black as night with a white stripe down his nose. Mr. Ness, who breeds the horses, had the smart idea of naming him before I had the chance to so now he thinks his name is bloody Acorn, which don't suit him at all.
Acorn, he says, hearing it in my Noise.
"Deadfall!" I correct, and sneak him my last apple, which gets his attention better than his name ever could. I sit down next to him stroking his flank while he thinks happy apple-scented thoughts.
Boy Colt, he thinks as he clips at the fruit with his big teeth, content as can be. Acorn. Warm barn. Apple.
I ruffle his mane good and proper. If only all our thoughts could be so bloody simple.
That's the good thing about the stables; even Pa with his Noise which is seems to be so much more powerful than everyone else's can't hear me out here. I think about him and the woman in the kitchen, how he talked about protecting her from the others and keeping her here. It all plays out in my head like a vid: he patches her up, the two get talking, she stops being scared of him, and then… well, wouldn't it be nice if they liked each other, the way the damsels in the stories always fall in love with the fellas who save 'em? Wouldn't it make a change to see Pa smile, to have him not be so alone?
But that's stupid, I know, just stupid wishful thinking. Pa likes being alone; he'd have rid of me too if he could. I've heard plenty about love, but I ain't seen much of it around this town, except between Ben and Cillian and maybe a couple of the others. Some of the men talk about it like it's what makes the world spin round, but there ain't been enough to go round in years and the world's still spinning without it, isn't it?
Isn't it?
Whatever. Stupid as it is, I let myself have that little pinch at happiness and imagine what life could be like if Pa got married again. If he had a wife we wouldn't have to eat my cooking anymore and I'd have someone to darn my socks when the toes wore out and maybe I'd get a little brother or even a sister eventually. It'd be almost like having a Ma again; I can't remember what that was like, but I reckon it'd be pretty swell to find out.
I stay out in the stables thinking stupid things all evening long, sitting with our bitch, stroking her fur and feeling the pups kick in her belly. She sleeps soundly, thinking dreamy thoughts of puppies and Master and Davy and poo. Aaron's back outside ranting again, driving half the town mad. I catch threads of what he's yelling, mean miserable stuff like the whore of Babylon and thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. He pops up in the dog's dream Noise and she chases him round the back of his dilapidated church and all the way to the swamp.
"Atta girl," I chuckle, ruffling her ears. Eventually supper time comes around and I head back inside to make a start on the dinner.
Apple? Morpeth thinks as I pass by, Apple, Boy Colt?
"Eat this," I grumble, and stick my finger up at him.
I reckon Aaron must have got hungry too because it's dead quiet out front. Either that or Pa's told him to sling his hook, because Pa's about the only person he'll listen to. Back in the house everything is quiet; Pa is sat in his usual chair reading a book. When he rounded up all the books to burn he kept the best ones for his personal library, the ones he says are 'classics.' He likes to see me reading them so I've trawled my way through a few, though they don't make for the easiest reading for a person who's never been to Old World. It ain't like there's anything better to do in this God-forsaken town.
"She alright?" I ask, pointing to Cinda, who is asleep on the couch.
"She'll survive," Pa says sarcastically, which is about as close to joking as he ever gets. "I tried to convince her to sleep it off upstairs, but she was adamant against it."
I frown, not understanding why anyone would pick our lumpy couch over a nice comfortable bed.
"Will she survive us?"
"She's safe from the virus, David. I can assure you of that."
I look at Cinda. Her chest rises and falls slowly as anything. I wonder if she's dreaming.
"Do women dream, Pa?"
He looks at me like I'm an idiot.
"Of course they do, son."
I shrug, cuz how am I supposed to know when they ain't got no Noise to prove it?
I make a start on the dinner, stealing glances at Pa and the girl as I rustle up roast parsnips and the best corn from Mr. Turner's field with a massive slab of steak for the three of us. Perhaps the best thing about being the Mayor's son is that I get first pick at the Butcher's after every slaughter. I slice off some bread in thin pieces just the way Pa likes it, set out with some oil and pepper. As I lay the table there's a knock at the door for what must be the fourth time since I started cooking; neighbours, all desperate to find out what the Mayor had decided to do with the miracle girl. Pa ignores them, engrossed in his book.
"They're just nosey," I say.
"Nosey isn't the word I'd use," Pa murmurs. I try and fail to figure out what he means.
"Dinner's ready."
Pa wakes Cinda. She damn near has a heart attack to see him standing over her and rejects his hand when he offers it, but doesn't reject the offer of dinner. We sit around the dining table together in relative silence, Pa pausing to exchange niceties now and then. I ain't so good with niceties, and Cinda won't say a word back to Pa, but it feels nice, if not normal. I reckon if we're feedin' her, that must make her a guest rather than a prisoner. I watch closely to see if she's impressed with my cooking. She woffs down the vegetables but pokes around at the meat.
"Whas'matter, is it overdone?" I ask through a mouthful of bread, double-dipping my slice into the bowl of oil which makes Pa wince.
"Oh, it's not that," she says, her voice not much more than a whisper. "I don't eat meat."
I almost choke on what's left of the bread.
"You what? Bugger me!"
"David!" Pa barks, spiking at the curse word.
"Sorry, Pa," I say, but I'm more interested in Cinda, who I get to looking at like she's as alien as a Spackle. She ain't skinny, so what the hell does she eat?
Mushrooms, she tells me, which are these weird fungus things which we tend to steer clear of in Prentisstown because half of 'em are deadly poisonous and the other half don't taste that good, at least not in any way I've ever had 'em cooked. I shake my head, trying to imagine a life without beef and lamb. It hardly sounds worth living.
"That's mad, that is. What sort of a place do you come from, anyway?!"
Pa clears his throat before she can answer, and I don't need to hear what he's thinking to know it means that it's his turn to do the talking. Me and the girl both wait for him to speak, and he holds off a little longer just for the pleasure of seeing how neither of us dares to hurry him.
"I'd like to apologise for Mr. Collins' behaviour towards you this evening, Lucinda," he says languidly, what little Noise he has floating around him in a calm swirl. "It was most uncalled for."
My noise fills right up with her name, Lucinda Lucinda Lucinda, over and over again. Funny how girls' names are flowery in a way men's just ain't. She seems a little shaken by the reminder of the attack, looking down again.
"That much was hardly your fault, you weren't even there. Luckily I had Davy here to help me."
The rosy glow fills my head again. Pa tries to ignore it.
"Even so, I can assure you that that Mr. Collins' actions are not the sort of thing I condone, in spite of what you might have heard about our quaint little town."
She looks at him in a way I know he won't like. I can tell she wants to say something snarky, something that'll get his blood up. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out she don't wanna get hit again for talking, neither, so she stays quiet. She ain't figured out yet that Pa ain't the type to hit with fists.
"Your stay here in Prentisstown will be as comfortable as possible," he says, which puts me a little more at ease but don't seem to do the job for her. "I'll make sure of that."
"Thank you," she says, like she don't really believe him but she don't wanna see what he'll do if she don't stay polite.
"Thank you, David," he corrects her between bites. For a half-second I think he's thanking me for making the dinner, and the shock almost kills me.
"Thank you, David," she repeats obediently. The words sound all wrong, like she's a puppet and he's moving her mouth for her. He smiles in the kind of way he'd tell me off for, the kind of way he calls smug.
"You're most welcome, Lucinda."
I look between the pair of 'em with a little frown. David, I think, chewing over the thought and the last of the steak. Don't even sound right. Ain't nobody allowed to call him David.
I push down the odd little picture of the three of us doing this every night as a family, push down other intrusive thoughts like how I can't stop looking at her boobs and how she must know I can't stop looking 'em and how she must be seeing me panicking about it in my Noise, and how Pa must see it, too, and how I can't stop seeing what was in Mr. Hammar's Noise neither and how if it's upset me then God knows what Cinda must be feeling about all that.
But that's just it, ain't it? Only God knows, if he's even up there at all. How great it must be to be a woman, with all your thoughts staying your own. And if you wanna tell a lie, you just go right on and tell it and there's no way for anyone to know what's really going on behind your eyes. Sure there's having to do all the cooking and the cleaning, but in fairness I do all that anyway. Don't sound too bad of a life in my books.
I get the thought that she must have been lying about not eating meat and how it is just over-cooked and she's just trying to be polite, and I'm just thinking too much all at once so I get up and begin gathering the empty plates in the hope that the clanking might at least hide a little of my Noise.
"I'll dry," Cinda says when I start boiling up water for washing the dishes. I get the feeling that she can't stand to be alone at the table with Pa. "As a thank you for helping me earlier."
The offer takes me by surprise a little, but of course she's a woman, ain't she? Probably nearly kills her to see a dirty dish and not be able to clean it up. I'm about to say yes, but then the steady whirlpool that is Pa's Noise goes dreadfully clear and I hear the word Knife aimed right at me, just for my ears alone, his Noise saying it quick and sharp like it's stabbing me in the back, and I see pictures of blades in his Noise, too, and of Cinda getting a hold of one of the serrated ones I use for carving up meat and using it against us.
"…Nah, you're all right," I say, starting on the dishes myself. Pa's Noise goes cool and quiet again, anything he might be thinking vanishing back beneath the surface. Lucinda shifts a little in her seat and asks,
"Can I use the bathroom?"
"Second on the left," Pa directs, and she's gone in an instant. Once I hear the door lock I turn to Pa.
"I've hidden the razors," he assures me.
"So what are we gonna do with her? You figured it all out on your ride, right?"
He doesn't say a thing, and his Noise ain't giving nothing away, so I figure I'll keep on talking.
"I mean, it's not like we can just keep her. Not if she don't wanna be kept."
"I have no intention of keeping her, David," he says into his napkin, as though it's a dirty word.
"Well then, what? Don't get me wrong, I like her, it's damn near blown my mind having a woman around, but if she's got people of her own shouldn't we let her go home? We could go with her, find out who her people are, start trading with 'em, maybe, get life back to normal with women around again! She doesn't wanna be here, not with folks all thinking that awful stuff about her and bashing her head in for no reason. You should have seen the way Cliff went for her earlier, Pa! Like a bloody animal he was. She didn't even do nothing. All she said was…"
I struggle to remember what she said. It was something strange, something which didn't make any sense at all.
"…She said that the Spackle germ isn't what killed the women."
And that's when he does it.
He ain't done it in weeks, he's been restraining himself, but right then and there he hits me with a blast of Noise so hard it's like my head's been blown off my shoulders and has gone crashing out the window into the pigsty next door. I can't hear nothing, I can't see nothing, and for what feels like the longest time it's like being dead, I'm no one and all there is is the voice telling me yer nothing yer nothing yer nothing YER NO ONE DAVY PRENTISS and I'm dead dead dead.
But I know something he doesn't, you see. He's been doing it to me so damn long, long as I can remember, that I've almost got used to it. And I've learned that right after that strike, right after he almost guts you with the sheer power of his Noise, there's this weird moment of clarity, like you've been stood in a dark cave your whole life and for just a second it's lit up with a bright white light and you can see the stuff that's been all around you since the day you were born that you've been too blind or too stupid to get a look at. And in that moment, in that tiny shining moment it's like I can see right into the middle of his Noise.
There's an image there right in the centre, clear as crystal, and it's so real and so rancid that it sends my heart shivering down to my knees.
Cuz it's Aaron, standing in the swamp in the black of night, holding a knife.
And the girl's lying dead at his feet.