Maybe it will be different in the Verdant, but out here, the wastes harden everyone in time. Even boys who pick scrub flowers for their mas.
* * *
On our third morning in Harlie’s Hope, Harlie says it’s time to test the newly installed brakes.
We all scramble into the wagon, which faces north. Reed sits near the stern, arms still bound, and Harlie barks out instructions for me and Asher to raise sails and tighten rigging. There’s a tailwind, as there’s been every day since we arrived—it seems to blow in from the southwest without fail—and the sails quickly snap tight, cupped with air. The wheels lurch beneath us, creaking as they get going. Harlie leans on the tiller, aligning us with the wind, toward barren desert.
The wheels keep turning, slowly, then faster, and soon we’re bumping across the plain at the clip of a galloping horse. I squint, marveling at the speed, then laugh and throw my arms out. My scarf flutters at the nape of my neck. This must be what it feels like to fly.
“Here goes nothing!” Harlie calls from the tiller. Her white hair whips behind her like a current. She looks back to where I stand near the brake, her eyes flashing behind her goggles. “Grab on to something and pull, girl. Let’s see if she stops as well as she sails.”
I yank on the lever. Beneath the deck, the wheels cry in protest, squeaking and grinding against the weight of the brake. Immediately, we start to slow, and my palms burn hot. I’ll need to wear gloves next time.
“See to the sails!” Harlie shouts to Asher. “Drop them fast.” She leans into the tiller, angling us back the way we came as he works the rigging.
The wagon turns in a wide arc. The back wheels skid across the dirt, trying to keep up with the front. When the wind can no longer fill the sails, our speed is cut drastically and my work at the brake becomes easier. I squeeze tighter, listen to the wheels lock firm. By the time we’re angled into the headwind, Asher has completely dropped the mainsail.
The wind wagon slows to a crawl.
Asher pants, the ropes still wrapped around his palms. Harlie steps away from the tiller, laughing as we roll to a stop. “It works,” she gasps. “It scudding works!”
We look at each other in amazement, then raise the sails. It takes nearly twice as long to return to Harlie’s Hope, because we’re now sailing against a headwind and have to zigzag to keep wind in our sails at all, but we return—and brake—without issue.
“Tomorrow?” I say, glancing north.
“Yes,” Harlie agrees, “but she needs a name first. All good boats have one.”
“Gods Touched,” Reed proposes. It’s the first thing he’s said all morning—one of the few things he’s said since the day he told me we shared blood. Now, as he stands with a hand against the side rail looking out across the wastes, there’s a spark to his eyes. Hope. Faith.
He thinks this might work. He wants it to.
And this name choice . . .
Does it mean he is still loyal to a man who wears a pendant of stars and believes only the gods touched will save us? Or does it prove that Reed has faith in something larger than the General, that he wants this boat to deliver all of us from our suffering?
“I like it,” Asher says, and he looks mad about it—annoyed that he agrees with Reed on something.
“The Gods Touched,” Harlie says, gazing up the mast. “She’ll find the way when no one else has, because she’s touched by the gods.”
A few weeks earlier I’d have hated the name. But now I like the idea of our wind wagon being blessed by the gods. They’ve abandoned us, but I’m starting to wonder if they may return after all. Because if the map is real and readable, all the rumors about the Verdant must be too. The gods will reappear and grant us the power to control the Verdant’s borders. Power to keep the General out of it forever. And our gods touched vessel will make this moment possible.
* * *
Come dawn, we’re ready.
The previous night was spent loading the wagon, and everything of use that Harlie owned is now aboard the Gods Touched. Enough food for nearly a moon, thanks to Reed’s butchered horse. The animal provided even more, but Harlie had only so many jars to spare for storing the smoked meat. The others are filled with water; enough for eight days, maybe ten max if we really ration it. We also have a few empties and some plas that we can use to set up inverted wells, gathering water while we work our way through the stocked jars. The rest of her lumber, rope, and tools go belowdecks, along with some blankets for the evenings and a few jars of moonblitz that Harlie had been saving.
“I figure it’ll get used one way or another,” she says. “In celebration, or desperation. Guess it all depends on what we find.”
I shrug into my jacket and smack dust from my hair. Since arriving, we’ve been sleeping under the stars, and even with my scarf wrapped around my head, the desert has managed to work its way into every nook and cranny. Once my bag is packed and my goggles are pulled into place, I scramble onto the wagon.
Asher is already aboard, showing Reed how to coil up extra rope and adjust the rigging so that he can help us on the wastes. Once we get moving, we’ve agreed that he can finally be freed of his bindings; it’s not as if there will be anywhere for him to run.
Harlie is at the tiller, looking over her home one last time. “Goodbye, Harlie’s Hope,” she says. “You are where my granddaughter lost faith in me, and even if she was the last to do so, she hurt the most. I won’t miss you.”
It’s bittersweet, almost depressing, but I understand more than she knows. I also miss my pack, but not Dead River itself. Dead River was just a place we lived for a while.
“Nice tailwind again,” Harlie says. “I say we ride it and head northeast.”
“No, we have to go northwest,” I say, the Es on my back practically tingling. The Verdant lies in that direction. I can see the complete map in my mind.
“Will be a bit slower than heading northeast,” she warns, letting the breeze pass through her fingers, “but I bet we can manage if you’re sure about this.”
I glance at Asher. He nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Is it you that’s gods touched, or my wind wagon?” Harlie says with a wink.
I roll my eyes.
“Asher, hoist the mainsail!” Harlie announces, her eyes sparkling. “Reed, you see to the headsail. Delta, I want you at the brake, just in case it’s needed.”
We lurch to action.
And just like that, unceremoniously, we head into foreign territory, the sun beating down on our necks.
IV
Eden
Chapter Thirty-Two
We fall into a rhythm by the second day, taking turns at the tiller and on watch at night. Reed is the only one who gets to sleep straight through the evenings. Though he’s held us on course during the day, none of us trust him enough to let him man the tiller with only the moon for company.
By the evening of our third day, Harlie estimates that we’ve traveled as far as her pack ever explored. It feels like we are in truly uncharted territory, but the map Asher and I share means someone has been through this stretch of wastes before.