The Necronomicon

Chapter Eleven

"So what does the revolution want?" Meredith asked Frederick questioningly, as he fired another arrow into the tree bark, awaiting her turn to shoot.

He smiled, satisfied, as his arrow struck the bullseye yet again. "Our aims?" He tossed her the bow, and helped her with the arrow. "We want equality. Gender equality, for one — where both men and women are seen as equal." He clarified, and Meredith didn't reply. "After all, why should eight grotty old men be considered better than a whole host of others?" At his words, Meredith scowled, knowing he was insulting her father, and she decided to use this as an excuse for her terrible miss.

He was dead. Never to breathe again. She took a shaky breath — Frederick's next words distracted her.

"We stand for two ranks of people — Leaders and Workers. I shouldn't say ranks, as we believe that no one person is better than another. In a nutshell, Leaders are essentially the government, but they get the same pay as the workers do. When this is all over, we will make up the Leaders. By we I mean people like me — the people in charge of the revolution right now, and a few others. The Workers will make up everyone else." Meredith took another shot, missing badly.

"We also desire freedom — freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and so on," He continued, describing every attribute of life under the revolution's rule, and she found herself growing a little confused.

"So you've overthrown The Elders. What do you plan to do next?"

The woods were darker and denser here. The river was a little way off, behind her. She wished she could bathe herself — she'd been too exhausted to last night, and she was feeling a bit grubby. There were taller trees, here, their branches tracing the clouds. As Meredith gazed at them, not concentrating, she thought they looked like palmar flexion creases. Eleanor had taught her palmistry before, and she'd learnt the term. Palmar flexion creases. It was the only sophisticated word she knew.

Through the towering greenery, the sunlight felt less intrusive. As Meredith passed him the bow, she remembered the last time she'd visited the woods — it had been with her mother, when she was still alive.

It had been a beautiful day; Meredith remembered the sun shining. She must have been about two years old — she recalled her mother holding her close, bouncing her up and down...

She didn't remember much else.

Her mother had had thick hair, a brownish black, down to her waist. Meredith had her hair, bar the colour — which she shared with her father. Meredith couldn't remember her eye colour or face shape — she only remembered that hair, it was always brushing against her. She'd cling to it, want to climb in it...

There were no photos of her mother anymore.

Frederick closed his eyes as he took his next shot, showing off. "We're going to recruit and rebuild," He told her, and his arrow struck the exact middle of the target. Meredith sighed, looking to the river. It was sparkling so pleasantly, but she knew she had to practice before she could swim, and before they walked on.

He followed her gaze, and sighed. "Meredith Hawthorne, you aren't exactly concentrating," He said, faking annoyance. She turned to him, startled, but he was relaxed, playful, reassuring her. "Go on then — we'll finish up here today. You have a bit of a wash — God, you need it — and I'll find us some lunch." She stuck her tongue out at him, racing towards the river.

Frederick shook his head at her, smiling, following after her. He placed their bags at the foot of a tree by the stream, near Meredith, then armed himself and went looking for prey. The past few days had relaxed him more than he cared to admit. She had a strange effect on him. When he was around her, he smiled more often, and he found teasing her great fun — it had become one of her favourite pastimes. He readied his bow, hoping to find something large, like a boar, rather than something smaller, like a fox or a hare.

They were still a long way away from the rebel's base camp. They'd been walking together for six or seven days now, but they weren't even close to halfway yet. Their walk could take weeks, and he hoped the rebels didn't need him there as much as he suspected they did.

It had been him who had suggested overthrowing The Elders, but it had been someone else's to burn their houses. It had been effective — though Frederick suspected that if he'd been in charge of that aspect of the plan, it could've gone more smoothly.

For example — some Elders still lived, possibly gathering numbers. He didn't want to slaughter them, like some of the other rebels did, especially as they were the oldest people in the country, but he did want them to be contained. Frederick didn't want the revolution to stumble now, especially as The Elders had fallen so easily.

They'd trusted their people not to rebel against them — they didn't even have an army. Of course, there were no other countries to go to war with. But hadn't The Elders known their ruling could be controversial? For one, they were so gender specific.

Something rustled in the bushes as he approached cautiously, bow at the ready. There was a spark of movement, and Frederick released his arrow.

The dull thud of a body hitting the grass caused him to approach, and he grabbed the dead animal. Amazing — he'd managed to pierce its heart. It was a white rabbit, thin and scrawny. Meager. He held it in one hand, ready to shoot any other prey with the other.

When Frederick returned to the bags and Meredith, he carried the rabbit in one hand, and a quail and another small bird in the other. He'd hoped for a better haul — but this was enough. As Frederick went about setting up the fire, Meredith gathered the rocks that they needed to surround the fire, to ensure it didn't spread. She shrieked whenever her hands got too muddy, and dipped them into the river to clean them regularly.

He asked her to wash the animals after he skinned them, but she refused, saying she couldn't bring herself to touch their scrawny bodies. "Would you rather skin or clean?" He asked her bluntly, and when she sighed, took out his blade.

Over lunch, Frederick told her stories about the animals — making up fables as to why they had the features they did. They took turns swapping tales, and Meredith found herself, at times, almost choking from laughter.

They strode for all of the afternoon, tracing the river. She smiled at him, ignoring the dirt marring her dress. "You've seen the marshlands before?"

He nodded, grinning faintly. "They're picturesque. The mud can come up to your thigh, though, so you have to be careful." Meredith stopped listening, blanching at the thought — she'd have to wear her worst dress once they eventually got to her destination.

When they finally stopped for the night, Meredith dreamed of dancing and laughter and marriage. And throughout the night she couldn't rid her minds of thoughts about a certain young man with hair the exact colour of milky chocolate.