The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,82

made you decide to go back now?” I’d been wondering about her reasons since Nerang told me she would take me home.

“Other than that you needed a guide?” she said. “When I was younger, people thought my lack of fear of the Scourge was courage. They thought I was brave, and I let them believe it. But I’m not. Not in the ways that count. I knew it was wrong to run away from my family that night, but I didn’t have the nerve to tell my people what I saw and accept the consequences. I didn’t have the strength to brave Shrike’s anger, or to stay with my son who needed me. I think I do now. I’m hoping I can make amends and return to Koolkuna free of the guilt I’ve held close to me for years.”

I think about that as we walk. Do I have the courage now to tell my people what I know about the Scourge, and about Koolkuna? Or will I be like Kadee, and shy away from their anger and fear?

Kadee suggests we take a break. I hunt around for a little shade and dump my pack on the ground, then pull out one of my water sacks. We’re each carrying two, enough for a day of walking. After that, we should be home—and drinking the poisoned water again. I wonder how long it will take for the poison to convince me the sick ones are the Scourge again. Will I gradually slip into the madness, or will I wake up with it one morning?

“Are you hungry?” Kadee asks. “Nerang gave me some treats. He dries berries the children collect, pounds them flat, then rolls them into sticks.”

“I didn’t know he could make anything, he told me he hits up all the widows for dinner!”

“Well, it’s no fun cooking for one. I should know. Here, try one.”

I take a bite. It’s sticky, seedy—and tasty. “He’s been holding out on me.”

Kadee laughs, and tells me of other people’s hidden talents. Amarina, a woman we worked with in the garden with a high, thin voice like birdsong, can coax a fire from a soggy pile of rotting wood. Derain, Kora’s father, has a knack for soothing crying babies. Sleep-deprived mothers at their wits’ end often call on him in the middle of the night.

“Who knew?” I laugh.

“We all have secrets,” she says, and I can tell she means something more than being good with fires or babies. The chorus of insects breaks off, as if to hear what she’ll say next. I wait, too, giving her time, while something slithers forebodingly through my gut. “You know Peree came to Shrike and me in the Exchange, don’t you? He was such a beautiful baby, strong-willed but smiley, with sparkling green eyes and yellow curls sprouting from his head like forsythia. I thought he might be a new beginning for me: something to care for and love, something to distract me from the misery of not being able to tell anyone what I knew to be true about the Scourge. He was all of that . . . for a time. But as he grew older, I longed for another child. I thought having a baby with Shrike might bring us closer, strengthen our relationship in ways we hadn’t been able to manage ourselves.”

Blood pumps in my head, beating out a warning, and my breath speeds up as if I’m in danger. I can’t make sense of my body’s reaction. It’s like I know what she’s going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.

“I gave birth to a daughter when Peree was two. She was beautiful, like him, but with a full head of gleaming dark hair and watchful brown eyes. We named her Daybreak—hoping, more than believing, that her hair and eyes would lighten, like the sun brightens the night sky.”

“You had to give her up in the Exchange?” I whisper.

“To my unending guilt and anguish.” Kadee’s voice is pitched low. “Shrike told me her foster parents named her for a sweet, delicate herb. Then we never spoke of her again.”

I gasp, unable to take a full breath. Suddenly light-headed, I grab a handful of dirt and rub it between my hands, trying to keep myself grounded.

“For several years I didn’t know what became of our baby,” she continues. “Then I saw her one day, far below, playing near the gardens. She was spinning in the tall grasses, her hands skimming over the tops