THE MARKER
by Cecil Castellucci
IT WAS TIME FOR SEEDING, AND I HAD FINALLY REACHED THE age of apprentice. This year I would join the other Paters, and I would observe and help Jas with the counting and with the machines. The machines would be my responsibility, and I was already nervous. I lay the batteries out, like I had been told, and let them soak in the sun. I turned each one on and off. I even tested one on myself by pricking my finger and putting the bead of blood on the machine. It took a moment. It whirred. It blinked three times. A green light came on for the first three codes, and the display showed the letters that I was meant to look for.
AGGCTTACACCG
GAATCACCTAGC
CTTGTAACCTGG
It blinked a fourth time and made an unpleasant noise and blinked red, but I ignored the letters. It did not matter. Three for Four of the sequence was what mattered. Everyone knew that. Satisfied, I switched the machine off and packed them all away. It would be a long walk to all the towns, and I wanted to rest in a bed before I would no longer have one to sleep in. I blew the wick out and shut my eyes. But I could not deny the truth. I was excited to leave Sandig and see the outside world.
I am interested in everything—the others in town make fun of me for this. But Jas doesn’t. He turns a blind eye when I slip out of the gates and wander around the outskirts of Sandig. I am interested in the differences between home and away. I find things out there and add them to my collection of things. Things that are broken. Things that are from the past. Things that have no use. Things that interest me. Things that I take apart. Even the Romas, those who roam, the renegades, the outsiders who reject the Way, don’t bother me. But the Romas know where I like to go. Out beyond the boundaries to stare and contemplate the strange signs of faces, with their tongues out, in the fields that surround Sandig, and to notice how many animals I can spot: now none, now more, now here, now there. Sometimes they leave me the interesting things they find in exchange for cooked food, dried fish and seaweed that I smuggle outside the gates. It is my secret trade. On occasion, if they find something they think is very valuable, they will wait for me and ask for things they need. I will show them items from my collection and they will pick something, like a knife or some thread to stitch with, good for caring for a wound.
But no matter how much the others may laugh, I like my things. I like to observe.
How the fields are always green in a different way and no one notices.
How mostly I have only seen a bird in an old book that I keep in my room.
How much we rely on the tech that the SciTexts left us from those that came before, to survive.
How when something breaks it cannot be fixed.
The Paters leave from Sandig four times a year. News, Ides, Fourth, and Remembrance. We leave our town in our bright red robes so that everyone may know who we are, and our yellow scarves so that everyone may know that we are from Sandig. Sandig is the most important town. We are the Paters who have the Counter. We keep the count for all that are left. When we walk on our journey to do our duty, even the Romas do not bother us. They watch out for us, escorting the way to the next town. We are that important to the world.
I am so excited to leave that I get dressed before the sun is up. I adjust my yellow scarf, which is stitched with blue and lavender. I have blue and lavender tattoo rings on both of my arms so that everyone knows that when I am a full Pater I may only go with green, brown, orange, and red. But since there are not many left that I can go with, I will become the next Counter.
There are twelve of us walking. The road is long and the work is hard. But we are special.
When we reach the first town, on the gate there is a blue, lavender, black, and green flag waving. That means two girls are ready for seeding. On the highest post, two white flags fly. That means two new babes. This town is growing. I will feast with the others as an honored guest while the two Paters who are called do their duty. Jas is one of them, and that means tomorrow at the counting, I will have to work alone.
“I’m nervous,” I say to Jas.
“Don’t be, Geo,” he says. He hesitates, as though he is going to say something to me but then doesn’t. Instead he says the Pater code. “Do your duty, for all. Three for Four count. Be swift.”
I repeat it along with him. I know he is steeling me for what I must do. But I am restless.
Some of the Paters are complaining that the food was off, or not as good as last year. I do not understand why they are complaining, because I notice that most from my group do not eat much. Every year they seem to get skinnier. For me, the food seemed fine, and in all my years I have never seen so much food on a table. I know that every town feeds the Pater their best foods. I eat everything in front of me. Most of the others barely finish their first plate.
After the feast they all want to rest because their stomachs hurt. We are led to a cabin where we will all bunk, and almost everyone has to lie down. I never lie down after I eat, like the others do. I have been warned that I may feel ill from the different tastes, but my belly does not hurt and I do not have gas like the others. But even in our town, they complain and lie down after every meal, as they do here.
I stand at the door, looking out at this town, which is different and new.
“Shut the door,” Dug says to me. He is lying on his bedroll, sweating and moaning. So instead of joining the others on the floor to rest, I go outside to roam. I have never been away from Sandig, and my eyes are interested in all that is before me.
The town looks nothing like our hometown, and yet parts of it seem familiar. Here, like us, they feast mostly on fish and seaweed. I can hear the water. The sound of it is comforting and familiar, and reminds me of home. As with us, the streets are still mostly paved, and the people live on the street with the most houses that are still standing. The houses from before, with glass windows and working doors. And some of the houses have the same names as we do; tarbu ks. Wal t, Donal ’s. The houses go on, even past the large fence made of wood and metal that surrounds the town, and keeps its people safe. And outside, past the crumbling buildings, are of course those strange signs. The ones that scream danger. Now we know that there is not much out there, except for other barricaded towns and stretches of nothing. But after it all began, people needed to fight together to live. This town, Mesa, I know to be bigger than most but not as big as our home. I am warned that some other towns are very small. That is just part of the Way. And we do what we can to bring hope.
In the morning, when I wake up, it is time for the counting. It is the most important thing that our group of Paters do. We seed, like the other Paters, but our priority is the count. The village brings the babes that have been born since the last time we came. In this town there are two. I prick their fingers and the machines whir. They are both four for four. The town wants to celebrate with another feast. It is good news for them. Despite being a bigger town, their numbers were getting low. The two babes are boys. There is much to rejoice about that. Boys are rare, which is why most become Paters. But Jas has a schedule that he wants to keep. So he moves us along.
“We have many towns to go to,” he reminds us.
As I am packing up my machines, a woman comes in and presses a shell necklace into my hand. When we file out of the town, more people come up and try to give us gifts. I take what I am given because I like the thought of adding things from my trip to my collection, but the other Paters wave the people away, as though they are irritated by the show of emotion.
“I think they were just trying to say thank you,” I say to Jas.
“Geo, you’ll learn that your pack will be too heavy if you take every piece of thank you that you are given.”
“They were happy, that’s all,” I say. I am wearing my bead necklace. And I have dried seaweed in my pocket. And a small metal box with the picture of a woman who is part fish.
Jas shakes his head. He is much older than me, and so he has wisdom, and I respect that. But when he talks to me like that, it makes me feel as though I am not an apprentice Pater, about to become a man, but still just a small boy with a silly love of collecting odd things.
“Come now, Geo, don’t be sour,” Jas says.
We walk on the road and head north, but we must stop a few times more than Jas would like because some
