Written when I was born. Written till just before she died.
Before she was murdered.
My wondrous son who I swear will see this world come good.
Words read to me by Viola cuz I couldn’t–
And now Davy bloody Prentiss–
“Can you please,” Mayor Ledger says thru gritted teeth, “at least try–” He stops himself and looks at me apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he says, for the millionth time since Mr. Collins woke us up with breakfast.
Before I can say anything back I feel the hardest, sudden tug on my heart, so surprising I nearly gasp.
I look out again.
The women of New Prentisstown are coming.
They start to appear farther away, in groups down side streets away from the main body of men, kept there by the Mayor’s men patrolling on horseback.
I feel their silence in a way I can’t feel the men’s. It’s like a loss, like great groupings of sorrow against the sound of the world and I have to wipe my eyes again but I press myself closer to the opening, trying to see ’em, trying to see every single one of ’em.
Trying to see if she’s there.
But she ain’t.
She ain’t.
They look like the men, most of ’em wearing trousers and shirts of different cuts, some of ’em wearing long skirts, but most looking clean and comfortable and well-fed. Their hair has more variety, pulled back or up or over or short or long and not nearly as many of ’em are blonde as they are in the Noise of the menfolk where I come from.
And I see that more of their arms are crossed, more of their faces looking doubtful.
More anger there than on the faces of the men.
“Did anyone fight you?” I ask Mayor Ledger while I keep on looking. “Did anyone not wanna give up?”
“This is a democracy, Todd,” he sighs. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea,” I say, still looking, still not finding.
“It means the minority is listened to,” he says, “but the majority rules.”
I look at him. “All these people wanted to surrender?”
“The President made a proposal,” he says, touching his split lip, “to the elected Council, promising that the city would be unharmed if we agreed to this.”
“And you believed him?”
His eyes flash at me. “You are either forgetting or do not know that we already fought a great war, a war to end all wars, at just about the time you would have been born. If any repeat of that can be avoided–”
“Then yer willing to hand yerselves over to a murderer.”
He sighs again. “The majority of the Council, led by myself, decided this was the best way to save the most lives.” He rests his head against the brick. “Not everything is black and white, Todd. In fact, almost nothing is.”
“But what if–”
Ker-thunk. The lock on the door slides back and Mr. Collins enters, pistol pointed.
He looks straight at Mayor Ledger. “Get up,” he says.
I look back and forth twixt ’em both. “What’s going on?” I say.
Mayor Ledger stands from his corner. “It seems the piper must be paid, Todd,” he says, his voice trying to sound light but I hear his buzz rev up with fear. “This was a beautiful town,” he says to me. “And I was a better man. Remember that, please.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
Mr. Collins takes him by the arm and shoves him out the door.
“Hey!” I shout, coming after them. “Where are you taking him?”
Mr. Collins raises a fist to punch me–
And I flinch away.
(shut up)
He laughs and locks the door behind him.
Ker-thunk.
And I’m left alone in the tower.
And as Mayor Ledger’s buzz disappears down the stairs, that’s when I hear it.
March march march, way in the distance.
I go to an opening.
They’re here.
The conquering army, marching into Haven.
They flow down the zigzag road like a black river, dusty and dirty and coming like a dam’s burst. They march four or five across and the first of them disappear into the far trees at the base of the hill as the last finally crest the top. The crowd watches them, the men turning back from the platform, the women looking out from the side streets.
The march march march grows louder, echoing down the city streets. Like a clock ticking its way down.
The crowd waits. I wait with them.
And then, thru the trees, at the turning of the road–
Here they are.
The army.
Mr. Hammar at their front.
Mr. Hammar who lived in the petrol stayshun back home, Mr. Hammar who thought vile, violent things no boy should ever hear, Mr. Hammar who shot the people of Farbranch in the back as they fled.
Mr. Hammar leads the army.
I can hear him now, calling out marching words to keep everyone in time together. The foot, he’s yelling to the rhythm of the march.
The foot.
The foot.
The foot upon the neck.
They march into the square and turn down its side, cutting twixt the men and the women like an unstoppable force. Mr. Hammar’s close enough so I can see the smile, a smile I know full well, a smile that clubs, a smile that beats, a smile that dominates.
And as he gets closer, I grow more sure.
It’s a smile without Noise.
Someone, one of those men on horseback maybe, has gone out to meet the army on the road. Someone carrying the cure with him. The army ain’t making a sound except with its feet and with its chant.
The foot, the foot, the foot upon the neck.
They march round the side of the square to the platform. Mr. Hammar stops at a corner, letting the men start to make up formayshuns behind the platform, lining up with their backs to me, facing the crowd now turned to watch them.
I start to reckernize the soldiers as they line up. Mr. Wallace. Mr. Smith the younger. Mr. Phelps the storekeeper. Men from Prentisstown and many, many more men besides.
The army that grew as it came.
I see Ivan, the man from the barn at Farbranch, the man who secretly told me there were men in sympathy. He stands at the head of one of the formayshuns and everything that proves him right is standing behind him, arms at attenshun, rifles at the ready.
The last soldier marches into place with a final chant.
The foot upon the NECK!
And then there ain’t nothing but silence, blowing over New Prentisstown like a wind.