Now on to the excerpt!
CHAPTER 2
The snow is packed harder than I would have guessed. We slide much
faster than we can control. I cling to Thomas’s gloved hand with my own bare
one and try not to scream. My forehead throbs centered around the knot swelling
where the monster man headbutted me. The wind whips past my face, carrying
pellets of ice kicked up from our feet trying to dig in and slow the descent.
The river bank is coming up quickly. Too quickly.
“Thomas,” I squeak out. I want to shut my eyes and brace for impact,
but instead I watch in horror as jagged rocks lining the frozen river’s edge
grow larger, closer.
“Hang on, I gotcha.” Thomas grips my hand tightly and bends his knees,
digging his feet deeper into the icy snow bank.
Twang.
The guards must have reached the edge. But the sounds of their rifles
are accompanied by the scraping of ice and metal, and Thomas begins to slow.
Momentum carries me ahead of him, the motion centered on the connection of our
hands. My arm fully extends and starts to strain, gravity fighting to pull my
fingers from their grasp on his glove.
“I need both your hands,” he yells.
I roll on my side and reach up, catching him around his free wrist with
my flailing hand. I immediately feel the tug increase as he successfully slows
my descent as well.
Twang, twang.
More shots.
“Hold on, we’re gonna speed this up again.” Thomas redoubles his grip
on my right hand, then my left, before lifting his feet, and we shoot down the
slope again.
This time I look down at the rocks and realize they are boulders and we
are only a few moments away from smashing into them.
I look up the hill. The guards are standing at the top of the ridge,
taking aim.
Pain in my temples is followed by snippets of shock rifle statistics
flowing across my vision: diagrams, measurements, development. I shut my eyes
and shake the information away, groaning. But now I know these rifles have
limited range and accuracy. They aren’t like the guns of the past, firing
hundreds of feet with startling precision. We may be out of their reach on the
river.
“Hang on!” Thomas yells as we slow more quickly this time, yanking on
my outstretched arms. Then my feet slam into the boulders below, my legs
buckling.
I open my eyes and scramble to my hands and knees. The guards aren’t
following us, but that doesn’t mean they will let us go. One puts his rifle
down and speaks into a small black box. The other keeps us in his sights.
Twang.
The rock next to me explodes, little pebbles showering the ground
around us.
Okay, so maybe I misjudged their range.
“Time to go, love.” Thomas is on his feet and pulling me up too.
We slip around the huge rocks, coated in ice, to face the river in its
roaring glory. I hope Thomas won’t ask me to dive into the icy waters. I know
we have to get out quickly, but I’ve never been in water deeper than a shower
puddle. How will I survive the freezing current roaring in front of me?
As we round the corner between rocks and the last twang dies away
behind us, I see a small boat tied to a scrawny tree, halfway lodged on a thin,
sandy bank. Thomas takes off his gloves and hands them to me.
“Put these on,” he says, and I do so quickly, savoring the warmth his
hands left for mine. He stomps ahead and starts untying the line. Once it’s
free, he looks up at me.
I meet his gaze, understanding urgency that doesn’t need to be spoken.
I take in the river and the tiny wooden vessel. This is better than swimming,
but I’ve never ridden in a boat either. We didn’t live anywhere near water that
used boats for any purpose, and recreational boating is not of use.
“Get in. No doubt they are calling up for ropes and the like so they
can scale down and nab us.”
“I’ve never been in a boat before. I-I don’t know what to do,” I
stammer.
“Just get in and hold on. Don’t dance around and we’ll be fine.” He
smiles at me as he tugs at the ropes. The same smile that got me through all
those days in prison, only now there are no bars separating us, no regulations,
no guards—except the ones behind us on the hill.
I step gingerly into the shallow water and take hold of the brown
wooden sides. As I lift my other leg up, the boat tips under my weight and I
almost lose my balance. With one foot on the uneven bottom, I hurry to swing my
other leg into the boat, shaking as I cling to the side. Shallow water pools
around my boots as I wobble toward a small bench built in the back. I sit down
and grasp both sides of the boat. They feel smooth even through Thomas’s warm
wool gloves, worn down by the hands of previous passengers holding on for their
lives, I’m sure.
Thomas throws the ropes in after me and starts to push the boat into
the current. As we slide away from the shore, the top of the hill rises into
view beyond the large boulders sheltering us. The guards aren’t visible, but I
don’t relax yet. My arms are tense and I flex my calves. Thomas was right. They
are probably waiting for ropes or bigger guns or something worse before they
come after us. Their whole existence, everything they cherish, is crammed in my
brain, and they don’t want that slipping out of their control.
Thomas gives one last push, then jumps expertly into the front of the
boat. The slight rocking caused by his jump convinces me the boat is about to
capsize and I squeeze the sides tighter, closing my eyes. My whole body
tightens and I hold my breath as the boat lowers farther into the dark waters
with Thomas’s weight and then catches the current and speeds ahead. When I’m
brave enough to open my eyes, Thomas is standing in front of me with a pole,
pushing us away from an oncoming rock and catapulting us farther into the flow.
I hold my breath as we shoot forward.
Not wanting to look at the raging river around us, I look down into the
boat and notice Thomas’s boots. Now that we aren’t in the snow, I can see large
metal spikes protruding from the soles. That must have been how he climbed up
the hill and how he slowed our descent. An image of the spikes going through
the brown wood in the bottom of the boat and water rising up around me makes me
shiver, and I close my eyes again. He got down here without puncturing the
boat, so we should be able to get out too.
I release the side of the boat to gently prod the spot where the wild
man knocked his head against mine, and a dull throbbing meets my fingers. The
backs of my eyelids light up accompanied by stabbing pain between my temples. I
grab the sides of the boat again and brace myself for what comes next.
RMS Titanic was a British passenger liner that sank in the North
Atlantic Ocean on 15 April 1912 after colliding with an iceberg during her
maiden voyage from Southampton, UK, to New York City, US. The sinking of
Titanic caused the deaths of more than 1,500 people in one of the deadliest
peacetime maritime disasters in modern history.
“Stop, stop, stop!”
“Can’t love. We’re well on our way now. Look, they’re giving up.
Woo-hoo!”
Thomas doesn’t realize I’m not talking to him.
This pain, these information flashes, are the byproducts of Hamen
messing with my head. After Thomas escaped the prison and I was taken to the
Mind Wipe, Hamen filled me with all the lost information of our ancestors—everything our
current Leaders had decided wasn’t of use,
including most history, art, and music. What he hadn’t told me was that random bits would pop up without warning in flashes
and bursts of pain. I can’t decide if I’m glad to have it or if I wish it was
back in Hamen’s machine.
As soon as the episode has passed—in a moment that
feel like several minutes—I look up. In the distance, the guards
have both dropped their weapons and are watching us. We are moving too fast for
them to catch. The river bends to the left, taking us with it. An outcropping
of trees on the bank passes between us and they are gone. I wonder what Hamen
will say when he finds out I ran away. I picture his face growing dark and
morphing into the man I knew best, the man who enjoyed tormenting students in
Secondary School. The man who wouldn’t hesitate to erase my personality and
memories if given the chance.
How could he have ever been, as he claims, my mother’s friend?
The river is still swift but is deep and smooth now. I grow used to the
gentle rocking, and seeing Thomas confident at the helm helps me relax. At each
section of rapids, Thomas guides us through expertly. He looks back at me now
and then, a broad smile splitting his handsome face. As I think about how much
I missed him—his voice, his smile, the mischief in his eyes—I realize that I
don’t know this wild mountain boy much better than I know
Hamen. Yet I am willing to trust him, to follow him this time. Though he could
be taking me to a life much worse than Hamen offered, I doubt it with my whole
heart. Any life that includes Thomas is better than one without him.
I wish I’d never doubted him the first time.
About Leigh:
Leigh Statham was raised in the wilds of
rural Idaho but found her heart in New York City. She worked at many
interesting jobs before settling in as a mother and writer.
She now resides in North Carolina with her
husband, four children, eight chickens, a fluffy dog, and two suspected serial
killer cats.
Leigh is currently working on an MFA, has
written countless short stories, and is the author of lots of mediocre poetry.
She is also the winner of the 2016 Southeast Review Narrative Nonfiction Prize
for her short story “The Ditch Bank and the Fenceline.”
Giveaway Details:
2 winners will receive a finished copy of
IMANI UNRAVELED, US only.
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
Week Two:
2/22/2019- Good Choice Reading- Spotlight
