The Sign of One. Eugene Lambert

same lopsided face. The same greasy brown hair flopping over his forehead and falling into his eyes, the same gap between his teeth.

      His arm is stretched out and bandaged too.

      ‘Who are you?’ I ask him.

      He smiles – a sneery smile – like he knows something I don’t. They cut his bandage off and his wound is deep and gushing blood. He winks at me.

      Strong hands pick me up, haul me towards the gallows.

      ‘No!’ I scream. ‘You’re making a mistake!’

      The crowd goes crazy as the executioner drops the noose over my head. A hatch bangs open under my feet and I plunge into the darkness and –

      And wake up, choking and clawing at my throat.

      The glowtubes flick-flicker on. Rona comes running. She holds me down until I stop thrashing, then gathers me in her strong arms and rubs my back, like she used to when I was very little. She looks all crumpled and baggy-eyed.

      ‘You’re all right, Kyle. You had a bad dream, that’s all.’

      ‘I wish I’d never gone to that stupid Peace Fair,’ I say, when I can talk.

      ‘Well, I did tell you,’ she sighs.

      I pull away. ‘Why didn’t you tell me they killed them?’

      ‘And if I had told you?’

      I shift uneasily. ‘Everybody else goes. I’m sick of being the odd one out.’

      Rona smiles at me sadly. ‘What’s done is done, I suppose. But you could have been killed; it’s a miracle you weren’t.’

      ‘That’s hardly my fault.’

      ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she says slowly, ‘but you’ve no idea what the consequences will be. How impossible this makes things.’ She reaches over, checks my dressings are secure, touches my cheek.

      ‘Impossible?’ I say, not sure I heard right.

      Rona gives herself a tired little shake and stands up. ‘Look, it’s the middle of the night and I’m bone-tired. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’

      She goes and fetches me a glass filled with some cloudy-looking liquid.

      ‘Drink this. It’ll knock out a fourhorn.’

      She makes sure I swallow it all, then goes back to bed.

      But I don’t go back to sleep. I’m too scared to. I toss and turn, staring up into the darkness, my wounds itching like crazy under their dressings.

      Itching, just like my arm did in the dream . . .

6

       NEVER SAY THAT WORD

      The next day, I’m itching so bad, I nearly go out of my mind. Rona has to bind my hands to stop me tearing at my wounds. She tries all her ointments to soothe me, but nothing works. And she can’t even knock me out – it’s like my body goes all hyper and won’t shut down. I howl like a baby, even in front of Jude, but Rona says that if she gives me anything stronger she’s scared I won’t wake up.

      She reckons itching is good – a sign of healing.

      But if so, why’s she so cranky? She bites Jude’s head off so many times that Jude storms off. She doesn’t come back either. Anyway, the day after, I finally do get some sleep. When I wake up, the itch is gone. The pain too. I can lift my right arm and move my head without whining. Rona gets some of my favourite grilled tubenose fish inside me and I even manage to chew. I feel tired and incredibly stiff, like Nash and his mates have kicked the crap out of me, but that’s about it.

      If I moan, it’s about wanting to see Jude. Only Rona isn’t listening and Jude stays away the whole day. I stop worrying about dying and start worrying how bad my scars will be. No girl wants someone who looks like a monster.

      The third day since they brought me in with half my face and shoulder blown off, I wake up feeling almost strong again. A bit fed up with Jude though, for not standing up to Rona and coming to visit me, but otherwise good.

      ‘When can I get up?’ I ask for the hundredth time.

      ‘When I say so. Don’t ask me again!’

      Rona’s extra cross because she’s caught me out of bed once already. Okay, so maybe I should do what she says – she’s the healer after all. But my legs are twitching with all this lying about and I’m sick of pissing into bottles. Somehow I’m still alive. I want to see the sun and breathe fresh air again.

      ‘But I feel so much better,’ I say, yawning.

      Crash! The sound of glass shattering pulls my head round. I see Rona has dropped one of her ingredients bottles. An oily pool at her feet bubbles and smokes on the wood floor, but she’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

      My mouth goes dry. ‘What?’

      She frowns, then purses her lips. I call this her decision face.

      ‘You really don’t know, do you, Kyle?’

      ‘Know what?’

      She sighs, such a big sigh it’s like she shrinks letting that much breath go.

      ‘Right,’ she says. ‘This has gone on long enough.’

      I watch, amazed, as she bolts the shack door and closes all the shutters. The glowtubes flicker on automatically.

      ‘Do you feel well enough to travel?’ she asks me.

      Before Jude stopped coming to visit, she told me the gossip that’s going around. Freshwater is history – we’re going to have to hit the road and find someplace new. Folks are sweating that with so many killed we’re way too few now to bring in the harvest, look after all the animals and fight off Reaper attacks.

      ‘Think so,’ I say, not wanting us to be left behind.

      I struggle up, but she shakes her head and gently pushes me back down. She fetches her curved bandage scissors and holds them up so I see.

      ‘Stay still,’ she says, grimacing. ‘This might hurt.’

      I cringe as she slides the cold blade under the dressing on my neck and starts snipping through the layers of gauze, but it’s not so bad. When she peels it off, I hear a nasty sucking sound, but it doesn’t hurt. She hands me a mirror.

      ‘I’m so sorry, Kyle. I should have told you.’

      Her face is whiter than the bleached bedsheets. I hesitate, but I have to see the damage some time, so I bite my lip and hold the mirror up, fingers trembling.

      I tilt it back and forth, searching for the wound.

      Only . . . there is no wound.

      ‘What’s going on?’

      I take another look. All I see is the livid pink flesh of my nightmares, bits of crusty yellow scab hanging off and a smear of green painsucker. No scorched flesh, no pus-filled blisters. By some miracle, I’m almost completely healed.

      Then I get it – this is no miracle.

      No. This can’t be happening. Not to me! I’m no ident!

      I leap out of the bed and rip my other dressings off, careless of any pain. Rona tries to stop me, but I lash out and send her flying. And my chest and shoulder are the same – pink and shiny, no sign of a scar even. My jaw still looks all ugly and raw, but there’s flesh over the bone now, which wasn’t there four days ago.

      I tear at myself, but the healing is part of me.

      ‘Stop