The Record Keeper by Agnes Gomillion

Author:Agnes Gomillion
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

THE BLACK BOOK

The drums played that night, for an unprecedented second time in one week. We paused the party, letting half-complete twists unravel, while we crowded around the window to squint into the night. Within minutes, the fugitive was surrounded by a group of workers. This time, they didn’t let him go free.

I forced myself to watch as two dozen workers formed three beams of wood into a triangle. They hoisted the triangle up and supported each point on three more beams. A rope was slung over the structure and a noose coiled at the rope’s end. Ten minutes later, the fugitive swung.

As I walked back to my room for the night, my scalp tight beneath the braids, I thought back to Martin’s speech, so clear and articulate. With his red bandana and rousing message, everything about him had been sharp and intelligent—unimpaired. Was he now hanging beneath the moon, slain by his own Kongo brothers? And what had been his crime? Daring to suggest that individual Kongo lives were more important than the quota?

At my desk, I listened to the rumbling of my stomach as I made notes in Jones’ black book. I listed all the facts I’d learned about Hosea and the Director. There weren’t as many as I wanted, so I took the next hour to add my conjectures to the list. As I wrote, I saw Hosea’s strange brown eyes on the page. My pen dropped twice from my shaking hand before the task was complete.

Even so, I refused to acknowledge the shame that nagged me. I told myself I had no choice but to report to Jones—my assignment was clear. More, to really change the Kongo for good, I had to make it to the Assembly. Which meant, I had to appease Jones.

Finished, I placed the book in a locked compartment of my desk alongside a small bag of dried orange wedges—a rare fruit in the Kongo. I took the bag out and held it to my nose. I’d gotten the treat as a reward from Teacher Rowan last fall. Instead of ripping into it that day, I’d decided to save it, to eat on my journey to Hasting. I closed and locked the compartment then took out a clean notebook. I had a promise to keep.

The details of my time in the village were already blurring around the edges but, starting at the top of the page, I recorded everything I could remember about the people I’d met there. I’d spoken to so many that their stories ran together. Three and four grown men to a bed. Pregnant with one whilst nursing two. Can’t remember my real name, but they call me Scamper. I don’t eat much, weren’t much to eat. Got erased twice that year, once more the next, for missing work. Had a good woman once, I believe, two Rebirths ago.

Tears coursed down my cheeks as I wrote their tragic stories and remembered their faces. As desperate as they’d been, sick and

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