Shymers Read online

  Shymers

  Jen Naumann

  At or With Me Publishing

  Copyright 2012 Jen Naumann

  Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and image Copyright Jen Naumann Photography

  Table of Contents

  1- First Solid Memories

  2- You Have to Run

  3- I Don’t Really Know What I Am

  4- I’ve Been a Coward All My Life

  5- I Thought You Would Know

  6- Welcome to the Traverse Orphanage

  7- You Shouldn’t Have to Live This Way

  8- More Than Friends

  9- Are You Sure About This?

  10-I Have a Message for You

  11- I Know What You’re Trying to Do

  12- Welcome to the Rebel World

  13- Come See How Beautiful Living Can Be

  14- You’re a Bit Squeaky for a Shymer

  15- Are You a Soldj’a?

  16- How Could You Just Leave Her?

  17- Who are You?

  18- Why Did They Keep You a Secret?

  19- I Don’t Have Any Other Choice

  20- Something is Wrong

  21- There Are So Many People

  22- How Do I Know Society Didn’t Send You?

  23- Love Makes Us Do Funny Things

  24- Someone is Coming

  25- I Know What I Must Do

  26- This is the End

  Special Thanks

  To my editors Christopher Vondracek and Clover Autrey for all your hard work and your critical eyes that helped to improve my writing. You guys are awesome!

  To my beautiful model Rena Zierke for giving me the opportunity to create such a stunning cover.

  To Pam Berndt for once again agreeing to do the dirty work and catching the last minute things my eyes refused to see.

  To Amanda Kespohl for your amazing help and hilarious wit that never fails to crack me up.

  To everyone in my home community (in addition to Twitter and Facebook) who has been supportive of me since day one—I probably wouldn’t continue to do this without you!

  To my dear friend Liz DeVelder for your awesome feedback and your help in turning this half cooked idea into a memorable adventure. I am so glad we were able to reconnect after all these years!

  To my ever faithful and amazing friends Jody Skogsberg, Billie Gervais, Carolyn Zierke, Mindy Jagerson, Maria Monteiro and Janet Krinke. Not only do you guys listen to me blab on about the ups and downs in my life as an author, but you actually support my crazy adventures and give me the daily encouragement I need to keep going. I am so fortune to have all of you in my life. Much love to you!

  To my parents, my brother and my sister for being my solid rock all these years—I can always count on you to be there for me and I appreciate all that you do!

  To my dear husband for giving me the time I need to keep this career going and forgiving the neglected state our house seems to forever be in. By now it’s safe to say you’ve reached sainthood. I love you!

  To my children for putting up with your mother’s eccentric ways and continuing to be my biggest fans. I hope you learn from this story not to take any moment in life for granted.

  And finally, to Denise Pfaffinger. With just one question, you unknowingly created a whole new world for a girl named Olive. I owe you one.

  For my sister, my hero.

  Olive

  1 – First Solid Memories

  Just when I start to form a clear memory of life before we came to the Free Lands, it fizzles away and my mind turns completely blank. I was six when my parents took me away, leaving our home and loved ones behind. I should remember something from our old life in detail—what our old house looked like or the faces of my friends and my grandparents. But I don’t. Only small little flashes of things come to me sometimes, like facial features and voices, although I don’t know who any of them belong to.

  My mother says it was my father who forged ahead when first we came here, keeping her spirits high and never allowing her to give up when it seemed food and shelter were never going to come. We started out living in small tents, never staying in the same place and hardly ever stopping. Once we were deeper into the safety of the forest, my father began fixing up the remains of abandoned houses for us to live in. Yet I don’t remember any of that very clearly either.

  The first solid memories I have involve me as a young girl, exploring the forest and learning from my ever tolerant parents about the creatures and plants that lived among us. I knew every wide and narrow valley, every cluster of trees, and every unexpected bend of each creek. I came to know the call of the Laughing Gull, the spotted eggs of a mockingbird and the funny little footprints of a tree frog. I knew exactly where to find the cute but destructive goats among the open meadows and how to corral them long enough to milk them.

  Although lovely to look at, I knew to stay away from the small red and black berries as they were extremely poisonous, and that they could kill me with one bite. I knew I shouldn’t swim underneath the waterfall three hundred steps behind our home as there are strong currents that could sweep me off my feet and pull me under. I knew my favorite treat—a tart fruit that I would eat right off the vine—could be found hidden beneath the long, white flowers with just a hint of purple on their petals and white tendrils curling around their dark purple base.

  For most of my life, our sanctuary was a little house nestled in the thick of a red ginger patch with nothing more than a small sleeping room, a make-shift bathroom, and a kitchen. Occasionally when venturing farther away, we would run across other families that would either trade goods that were otherwise unavailable to us, or some kind of knowledge of Society. Although these other families would sometimes have a son or daughter my age, they never stayed long enough for us to be comfortable around each other. A large part of my childhood was spent without having any friends.

  Still, the three of us lived happily in the forest—for a time.

  When I was younger, one of my parents would stay behind with me while the other left to get the supplies we needed from Society. Once into my teen years, however, they began leaving together for hours at a time. I was told to stay close to the house and to hide if anyone came along. I was never afraid of being alone, only fearful of why my parents returned from these trips to pass each other worried glances.

  This way of life worked well for us. Then one afternoon, just short of my fifteenth birthday, everything changed. The minute my mother returned alone from Society, her slender body slumped and her blue eyes weary, I knew something was wrong. The sadness poured from her as if it were a living thing.

  “Where’s father?” I whispered.

  She crossed the room in a few quick strides to wrap her arms around me. “I’m so sorry,” she cried softly into my ear, her chest falling and rising underneath me with each sob. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Something heavy settled over the top of my chest, pushing every bit of air out of my lungs. I drew away from her. “What happened? Where is he?”

  Tears streamed from her eyes. “Your father is gone, Olive.”

  My world completely shattered that day.

  My father was always the entertainer in the family, the one to keep us all going when things seemed bleak. The jokes and made up adventures he loved to tell in his deep voice never failed to make us laugh. He was a very tall, gentle man with bright green eyes the same shade as my own that would light up whenever he smiled. As a little girl, I would curl into his arms and take in his smell—the combination of fresh forest and what I always figured to be the smell of a grown ma
n. After his death, I clung to that scent as long as I could and wouldn’t let my mother wash his last worn shirt until the smell had completely faded away.

  Merely a week after he was gone, my mother informed me that we were going to live with another family. It was hard to say goodbye to our home, filled with so many memories of my father. Still, I was excited by the chance to meet others living in the Free Lands—especially when my mother told me the family had a daughter.

  That afternoon, as we trekked for hours upon hours with only the basic of necessities and a few keepsakes strapped to our backs, my mother explained that the family we were going to see was just like us—hiding from the rest of the world, but happy. Also like us, they only had each other and that was all they needed.

  The two of us traveled well beyond the boundaries I had come to know and was trained to respect. I had never questioned the limitations that were placed on me, and never went beyond the invisible fence my parents had created. At the time, such a thought had never occurred to me.

  We found the family’s house hidden among a gathering of wide trees and bushes. The structure was small and crude, much like ours had been. When I was younger, my parents told me the homes we found in the forest were all that remained of the old world—before Society changed their laws and before the soldiers had set fire to most of the villages to force the Rebels out. Since I couldn’t remember what our house looked like before we came to the Free Lands, I saw the skeletal remains as simple houses, and nothing more.

  The tall man who greeted us at the door pulled my mother into him for a hug, making me wonder exactly who he was and how my mother knew him. With white clusters of hair peppering his temples and deep creases at the corner of his eyes, I guessed he was much older than my mother, although strikingly handsome.

  Inside, there were many of the same things my mother had brought back from the market—pillows filled with feathers, cast iron pans to cook food over the fire, plates and eating utensils made of metal, soaps to wash with, and large towels for bathing. They even had an abundance of canned and boxed foods, which had always been something considered to be a treat for us. The home was repaired in many of the same ways ours had been—the walls and roof were made from strong tree branches and the floors were covered in tightly woven grasses.

  The man introduced himself to me as Victor and his beautiful wife who appeared at his side as Sahara. The woman also stepped forward to embrace my mother. While Victor struck me as being quiet and incredibly serious, his wife Sahara had a kind smile and pretty eyes that sparkled.

  They introduced their daughter Taylor, who peered out at me from behind her mother before stepping out and smiling sweetly. She had blond hair the color of the milk weeds I liked to pick in the meadow—just like her mother’s—and bright, sky-blue eyes that seemed too big for her small, oval face. We stood smiling at each other, each of us feeling awkward and not knowing what to say.

  The very next day, my mother left me with Sahara and Taylor to cross over the border with Victor. She continued to trade her goods at market daily while Taylor’s father helped build houses. My mother refused to tell me exactly how they passed over the border, but they always did it when the sun was not yet up. I knew it was considered a highly rebellious act by Society to cross over, and the consequences of being caught were deadly. Because of this, I was always fearful when they were gone, right up until the moment my mother returned to me—especially after my father’s death.

  Although Taylor was a whole year older than me, we were each delighted to spend time with someone that we could call a friend. It wasn’t long before she grew to become the big sister I always wanted. We spent each and every day together, from the first light of dawn to the last shimmer of dusk, becoming virtually inseparable.

  First we explored the forest—swimming under waterfalls, finding new trails to travel down, catching rabbits and turtles, and picking the most colorful flowers we could find to weave into our hair. After a time, however, we grew desperate for a new activity. There was only so much for two girls to do in our small area of the forest. Taylor was the one who suggested that we visit the wall to spy on the soldiers that protected the border. Our parents weren’t aware that we were traveling so far from home, and would have been very upset if they were to find out.

  Once we discovered the silver monstrosity that separated us from the rest of the world, we were intrigued and returned there daily. We would stretch out in the middle of the tall grasses beside each other and share the stories our parents had passed along of the old world.

  I already knew that in the old days, no one was told the actual date of their impending death the way people in Society are now. They lived their lives quietly, never knowing when something was going to happen—when they would be in some kind of accident or when a disease would invade their bodies. Since they didn’t know exactly when their time was going to come, they lived with the belief that there would be another tomorrow. It is the kind of life our parents want us to have by hiding us away in the forest.

  Taylor shared detailed accounts of her great-grandparents’ exciting lives—visits to the ocean, travels to different parts of the country in airplanes, and going to big festivals in open fields where people gathered to listen to musicians singing. She tried to teach me how to dance as I had sometimes seen my parents doing. According to Taylor, dancing is really about swaying your body to a melody and feeling the rhythm of the beat. Between the two of us, we only know the melodies to a few dozen songs we have been taught. I have always been a terrible singer, but Taylor’s voice is sweet and airy, like the notes she sings.

  I used to dream at night of the stories Taylor told, in which music festivals were an everyday part of people’s lives. Although I thought I understood why my parents didn’t want me in Society where I would be forced to know my date of death, checking off the minutes until my life would be over, I still secretly wished we lived the same way our great-grandparents had—carefree and simple.

  One cooler morning just shy of a year from when we first met, Taylor patiently braided my wild hair as she does every morning to keep my neck cool from the heat that sets in later on in the day. Braiding is something Taylor learned from her mother. I have always been jealous of the intricate designs they are able to make with their golden blond locks in mere minutes, with just a twist of their hands. Taylor had spent hours trying to teach me, but eventually gave in when it seemed my fingers would never cooperate.

  My thoughts were swarming with unanswered questions that had come to me in the past weeks. They were questions I never dared to ask my parents as I knew they would cause my mother to frown or her lips to form into a straight line with dismay. Nonetheless, they were questions I couldn’t push to the back of my mind, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Did your mother ever tell you how she met your father?” I asked Taylor.

  “Do you mean how theymet, or how theyfell in love?”

  By her higher than usual tone, I knew she was trying not to laugh. Too often, she treated me like a little girl, which infuriated me. She wasn’tthat much older than me, although she always did seem to know a lot more. I only know some things of love stories from books my grandmother had passed down. Still, I was constantly irritated that Taylor always knew more and that she found it necessary to mock me because of it.

  “Either one,” I answered with a huff.

  Taylor grinned. “They met in Society, when they were in the same school.”

  I picked at a patch of grass by my feet. “My mother is always saying how Society is such a bad place and that being forced to know your exact date of death is so terrible. But I can’t figure out how it canallbe bad when she met my father there. I mean I wasbornthere and my parentslived thereforyears.”

  “Society is nothing more than a place filled with rules and conformists,” Taylor said. “And our parents don’t want us to know our DOD. They don’t want us to have to answer to the government like people there do. That’s not how life is supp
osed to be. They have sacrificed everything to give us this life.”

  I drew away from her, letting my hair fall from her hands. “I know. But how are we ever going to meet anyone the way our parents did if we aren’t allowed to ever go into Society? I haven’t been around a boy long enough to even call him a friend. Aren’t you curious what it’s like to kiss one? Don’t you want to know what it would be like to fall in love, like our parents did?”

  I never told her of my grandmother’s books as I knew she would only tease me for it. But the girl in my favorite love story wasn’t much older than I was, and she fell in love with a boy. Someday I hope to fall in love, just as she did.

  Taylor frowned down at the ruined braid and shrugged. “I think they hope we’ll live with them forever out here in the Free Lands. When we’re older, maybe we’ll meet boys that will come along someday and decide to stay. Things could be a lot worse, Olive. At least we have each other now.”

  I stood and crossed my arms. “Don’t you wonder what Society is really like? Wouldn’t you at least like to see what things go on there? Don’t you wonder if there is something more over there that they’re protecting us from? At what point will they decide we’re old enough to decide for ourselves where we want to live?”

  “Your fatherdied there, Olive,” Taylor said in a gentle voice. “What more do you need to know? Whatever is going on in Society, our parents are doing everything they can to protect us from it. Why are you suddenly questioning that?”