Free The Seventh Day by Joy Dettman Page B

to the coming of Jonjan, they had Harvested the six. And how many visits do they make between the Implanting and the Harvesting?
    Lord, I wish my mind would give me the answers I seek. I do not know this answer. How much time do they allow for the tiny foetus to grow? I do not know. Why have I not measured time?
    It is time, girl.
    â€˜You are not here, Granny. You are in the graveyard. And if you are here, then you said often to me that time is a gift. Always, you said that your time on earth was a gift.’
    Follow the rabbits, girl.
    I shiver, stand, walk to the window, look towards the hill. Perhaps it is time, for though the foetus gives me much discomfort, I think I do not want it Harvested.
    Lenny is checking the fences. Old Pa has taken his pills. He will be sleeping somewhere, hiding his pain and his sleep. Perhaps this is the day for which my basket was prepared.
    And what of the searchers?
    If they are about, then they can not put their crafts down on the hill. It is rock and ridge and ravine, and the little searchers, when from their crafts, do not move well over rocky terrain. The hill is safe; I have only to get there.
    I walk to the barn and do not see Pa. I take up my basket and stand in the doorway, peering at its contents while the beat of my heart grows fast, and faster still. I shake my head, think to place the basket back in its place. But . . . but why did I pack it with such care if not to use what it contains?
    My eyes search the land, the sky. I see no searcher, nor sign of Lenny. The dogs are not tied. They will be with him. I listen, and believe I hear distant barking from the west.
    Still I wait, checking my supplies. Only four plasti-cans of cornbeans. Why did I not take more? Three cans of fruitjell, only two of the sweetened cornmilk. Lenny’s sharp knife, a cloth-wrapped lump of Pa’s cheese, stolen from where he hangs it on the verandah to air-dry. Only one packet of crispbites, one bottle of cordial, a blanket.
    I can not think too long on this thing, for thinking makes my fear grow stronger and, too, the sun has already come far from the eastern mountains.
    Fast then, I leave the barn and walk east; the spring cave is to the north of our land, but by walking east I will come sooner to the woods where there are tall trees, both alive and dead. They will hide me from the searchers. I run across the open land, my eyes searching the sky for the glint of silver wings, searching the land for Lenny or his dogs.
    Then I am in the woods where I rest a while, slow my breathing and my heartbeat before turning my footsteps towards the north, and up, for it is here where the hill begins its climb.
    It is fine to walk free, to renew acquaintance with the ancient trees, grown tall towards the sun of that time before. There is one here that I remember well, its leaves and bark long fallen, its timber worn by storm to near white. Granny had named it the god tree. Still it stands, limbs outstretched, more regal than the living trees. I rest a while beside it, place my hands upon it for I love its age, and the age in which it had lived.
    The land grows steep now, and with no path to follow, I climb, my feet picking their way carefully. I begin to think my sandals not a sensible choice, for sticks strike at bare skin and rocks bruise, as if bidding me to turn my feet for home. Too soon I come upon the fence. It sings today. I can not climb over, or through it. My hands can not touch it to part the cutting wires; like some cushioning wave of energy it impels them away. The city is surrounded by such a fence. The newsprint says that many of the lower order try to leave the city, that at times escapees cut these wires with special tools.
    I do not have the special tools, only my knife, and when I try to touch it to the wire, it is flung from my hand. I retrieve it, place it again in my basket as I look towards the hill. I have come only one-third of the distance and can go no further.
    This fence