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Midwinterblood

Roaring Brook Press

The sun does not go down.

This is the first thing that Eric Seven notices about Blessed Island. There will be many other strange things that he will notice, before the forgetting takes hold of him, but that will come later.

For now, he checks his watch as he stands at the top of the island's solitary hill, gazing to where the sun should set. It is midnight, but the sun still shines, barely dipping its heavy rim into the sea on the far horizon.

The island is so far north.

He shakes his head.

He's thinking about Merle. How something seems to wait in her eyes. How he felt calm, just standing next to her.

"Well, so it is," he says, smiling with wonder.

He's tired. His journey has been a long one.

The strangeness began on the plane.

The flight to Skarpness was not full, maybe half the seats were empty, but there were nevertheless a good number of people. Mining company folk mostly, heading to the northern interior, Eric guessed.

He took his seat by the window and did what everyone does before the instruction to switch off communications; he selected OneDegree on his device, and bumped.

And then ... nothing.

He rebooted the app, and bumped again.

Nothing.

He shook his head, unable to understand it.

The OneDegree app is based on the principle of six degrees of separation. Eric knows all about it. As a journalist, it is his job to know about communication in its many forms. Since its invention, when some clever soul realized that it often takes not six, but merely one step to connect you to most other people in the world, the app, or its current version, sits in the palm of everyone's hand. When going on a journey, or arriving in a new place, the easiest way to make friends quickly is to bump the air around you with OneDegree. Maybe no one you know is on the same plane, but someone who knows someone you know is likely to be. Or someone who went to school with a friend of yours. Or who works where you worked ten years ago. And so on and so on. Then you have someone to pass the journey with, at the least, and maybe a new friend for life. And although that's never happened to Eric, in all his years of using OneDegree on so many solitary journeys around the world, he has never failed to find some kind of link among a group of a hundred or more who would otherwise have remained total strangers.

So that is why he stared a moment longer at his device, wondering if the new version had a bug.

As if something sinister had happened, he leaned out of his seat and a little furtively studied his fellow passengers.

They were a tough lot.

Miners, he thought. Tough.

Work and worry were drawn on their faces, in skin aged by the cold. They were silent, merely nodding at the smiling attendants who floated down the aisle, proffering drinks.

"You'll have to switch that off now, Mr. Seven," said a voice, and he turned to see one of them looking down at him. She checked her device, making sure she'd gotten his name right.

He scratched the back of his head, pushed a badly behaved strand of dark brown hair out of his eyes.

"Yes. Sorry, right. Only ..."

He looked at his device.

"Yes, Mr. Seven?"

He shook his head. How could he have managed not to bump anyone on the flight? Not even at the weakest level of connection.

"Nothing."

The attendant smiled.

"Very good. Have a nice flight, Mr. Seven."

He did have a nice flight.

The plane arrowed due north, clinging to the coast almost the whole way. It was spectacularly beautiful.

The coastline was a broken fractal, the sea was deep blue, the rocks of the shore gentle mottled grays and browns. Inland, the ground climbed steadily into forests, which eventually gave way to treeless mountaintops.

About noon the plane landed at Skarpness, and as Eric predicted, most of the passengers picked up transport heading for the big mine.

For the hundredth time, he pulled out the instructions the desk editor's assistant had given him, and then made his way on foot to the ferry terminal, where he boarded the steamboat for the short trip to Blessed Island.

He knows little about the place.

Just the rumors. But then, that's all anyone knows, and that, after all, is the whole point of his trip, to find out something about the island.

There is nothing much about it on the Net. Nothing beyond the times of the steamboat, the hours of sun-fall and moon-up, a brief history of the old fishing trade, now gone.

As for the rumors ...

No firsthand accounts, no original source material. The pages that do mention them are simply rehashes of each other, leaving very few original hits to glean anything from.

So little to be read on the Net; that's another strange thing about the place.

All he's heard are the rumors, stories, the speculation, and the swiftly lost words of whispered secrets, about the island where people have started to live forever.

Eric Seven does not believe in love at first sight.

He corrects himself.

Even in that moment, the moment that it happens, he feels his journalist's brain make a correction, rubbing out a long-held belief, writing a new one in its place.

He did not believe in love at first sight. He thinks he might do so now.

"I'm Merle," she says. Her light hair falls across one eye as she shakes his hand; she flicks it aside. And smiles.

"Of course you are," he says. Inside, he makes a note to punish himself later for such a lame reply, and yet, he had not said it with arrogance, or even an attempt at being funny. He said it as if someone else was saying it for him.

He was standing on the quayside, his single large backpack by his feet. Behind him, the steamboat pulled away, heading back to the mainland. The few other passengers have already disappeared, vanishing into the narrow lanes of the island.

Everything is quiet.

The young woman called Merle half turns and gestures, and now Eric notices a small group of people with her.

They smile at him, too.

One of them, an old man, steps forward.

"I'm Tor," he says, and holds out his hand.

Eric shakes it, feeling a little uneasy again.

"How did you know I was coming?" he asks.

"Well, we didn't," Tor says. "But we don't get many visitors. Word of your arrival reached us, and we have come to meet you, Mr. ... Seven?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right. Eric Seven."

Tor raises a whiskery eyebrow. His face is long and so weather-beaten it is hard to guess how old he is, and Eric notices that there is something wrong with one of his eyes. It's milky, and doesn't seem to focus. Maybe he's even blind in that eye. Eric tries not to stare.

"Well, so it is," he says under his breath.

"Seven?" asks Tor. "One of the True Modern Church?"

Eric shakes his head.

"My parents were. They were first generation converts, back in the twenty-twenties.

"I ..." He stops, wonders what to say. "I disappointed them. It means nothing to me."

"So why keep the name?" Tor smiles. "If I may ask."

Eric pauses.

"Many reasons, I suppose. Respect, perhaps. And even though I'm not religious, I do like the idea that the renaming represents."

Merle, who's been watching this exchange, tilts her head just a fraction more. Her hair falls across her eyes again. Eric notices it, and feels himself fall even faster for her. He feels ridiculous. He's wondering what to say, what to do, but she's asking him something.

"What's that?" she asks. "The idea behind it?"

"The founders of the True Modern Church had many strongly held principles and beliefs, but much of their teaching is more practical, to do with how people relate to one another, to society, and so on. They believed that names were shackles, and badges, and that they were full of meaning, and history, and were therefore weapons of prejudice and of snobbery. Anyone who joins the Church is invited to select a new name, one without meaning, without history, without prejudice. Numbers are common in the Church; they seemed neutral. Devoid of meaning."

Merle tilts her head some more. Eric wants to shout with joy, and pictures himself throwing his arms around her. He does neither, but wonders what it would feel like to touch her.

"But Mr. Seven," Tor says, "all words have meaning. Especially names. Even new ones. And as for numbers ..."

Eric shrugs again.

"What was your parents' name before they joined the Church?"

Eric is thrown, as he realizes that he doesn't want to talk about his parents. He changes the subject. He looks at Tor and Merle, and the two women and another man who are with them. They are all smiling at him.

"So, are you always this friendly to visitors?"

"We don't get many visitors," Tor repeats.

Eric notices that his question has not been answered directly, but lets it drop.

"And why have you come to Blessed Island?" Tor continues.

He smiles, and just as Eric is about to tell him, something makes him stop short. But it's best not to lie, and in these circumstances he usually falls back on the simple method of giving just enough of the truth.

"I'm a journalist," he explains. "My editor wants a feature about your island. She's heard it's a beautiful place. A special place."

Eric can already see that this much is true.

Behind the welcoming party, a little lane splits into two, one path running off around the shoreline, the other up over a gentle rise. He can see modest, beautifully designed wooden houses, most painted in rich colors: deep reds, light blues, earthy yellows. They have small rose bushes and tall birches. Bees hum in the air.

Behind him the blue sea slaps at the stones of the quay and gulls cry overhead.

"And will you be staying long?" asks Tor, looking at Eric's single bag.

"I don't know yet," Eric says.

He looks at Merle. She smiles.

Eric Seven sat in the Cross House with Tor and the others who had met him at the ferry. Except Merle.

"Where were you thinking of staying, Mr. Seven?" Tor had asked, as they walked down the island, south from the quay.

"Please. Call me Eric."

"Where were you thinking of staying, Eric?"

"I don't know."

Tor smiled.

"We don't have a hotel. As I said, we —"

"— don't get many visitors," Eric finished for him. "But there must be some kind of guest house, perhaps?"

"No," Tor had said. "There is nothing of that sort. But don't worry. We will make some arrangements for you. In the meantime, you are welcome at my house. We can take tea while the arrangements are made."

They'd walked along the narrow lane, called Homeway, gently curving from time to time, but always heading south down the island, with pretty gardens and sweet houses on either side, some right on the track, some set back on little rocky cliffs among the trees. Now and again, side roads head off; even smaller, twistier paths. The paths have tiny white-on- blue signs: The Bend, The Backbend, The Green, The Crook.

All very, very beautiful.

As they'd walked, Eric saw people sitting out at tables in their gardens, enjoying the evening sunshine, taking a glass of wine, or even supper. Everyone had waved and called to Tor, who'd nodded back, smiling.

After ten minutes they'd arrived at a crossroads, where Homeway crossed another track of the same size, called Crossway.

"My home," Tor had said, indicating the largest house on the island that Eric had so far seen. Set back on a low hill of its own, Eric saw a big black wooden house dominating the crossroads. It was a slightly different style from the others, less pretty, more ... Eric searched for the word. More serious.

"This is the center of the island, Eric. Welcome."

Eric sat in Tor's house, his hands around a pottery mug of black tea.

The two women were introduced as Maya and Jane.

Younger than Tor, older than Merle. Both were quiet, but seemed friendly enough as they'd made the tea in Tor's large kitchen. The other man is called Henrik, again younger than Tor, though it's hard to be sure. Eric guessed they get a lot of weather living on an island like Blessed.

Maybe the rumors are true, he thought. Maybe these people are living forever, maybe Tor is a hundred and twenty, the others spring chickens of ninety-eight.

"If there's any way we can help you with your article, anything you require," said Henrik, "you only need ask. We are the Wards of Blessed, and ..."

Tor coughed, so quietly it was hard to believe that it was a signal, but Henrik stopped and corrected himself.

"Tor is the Ward of Blessed. We" — he nodded at Maya and Jane, and pointed to himself — "are the other wards of the island. So you only need to speak to one of us and it will be arranged."

"Thank you," Eric said. "You are all very kind."

He wondered where Merle had gone.

It's not even as if she is beautiful, not in the way people usually mean. She's more than pretty, that's what he can say, but it's not that that has caught him. It is simply her face, her eyes. The moment he saw them something clicked. He suddenly realized what it was. He recognized her face. As if seeing an old friend, long forgotten, and that triggered something else inside him. A thought that bothered him.

His head swam.

"I'm tired," he said. "Excuse me. I'm tired, but I think I could do with some air before bed. Could I ...?"

"But of course," Tor replied. "Why don't you explore the lanes and we'll come and get you when your house is ready. Don't go far."

Eric stands at the top of a small but steep hill known as the Outlook, looking to the west, watching the sun fail to set, thinking about Merle. The path he has taken is an odd one — it is well made, as well made as any he has seen so far, but it stops at the top of the hill by a thicket of bushes, and goes no farther. He has taken a few steps off the path on to a rocky outcrop, from where he can see over the treetops of the woods, to the west.

Tor's questions about his parents come back to him, and he realizes that it's been many years since he thought about them. Almost as if they were dead. And though they're not dead, they may as well be. He hasn't seen them or spoken to them in years. Not really since he was old enough to leave home, and go out into the world by himself.

Tor. What is it about the man? His eye is a little unsettling, maybe, but Eric knows there's something else. The man has been nothing but helpful, so what is it that makes Eric feel wary of him?

He brings back to mind the thought that bothered him at Tor's house. He recognized Merle's face.

Recognized. But that's not possible, because he has never seen her before.

As if to check, he pulls out his device, and is about to tap on OneDegree again, when he notices another oddity; he has no reception.

Of course, he's heard of places that have no signal, but he's never been to one.

A quiver runs through him as he realizes that the device that runs his whole life has just turned into an expensive little box of plastic, silicon, and glass.

He thinks about OneDegree, how it finds other lives, across the ether, and wonders if that can be done without a machine.

He looks out at the horizon again.

He has never been here, yet he feels he has met Merle before, and then, there is that other feeling, that somehow disturbs him even more.

Why, he thinks, do I have the feeling that I have come home?

"I don't think you'll find that works."

He jumps, and spins around to see Merle approaching from the path.

He puts it away, feeling stupid. He takes the chance to look at her as she approaches, wishing he had more than these few moments to work out what it is about her. He fails.

"I think you're right," he says as she comes up to him. "But how do you get by? Without devices?"

"We get by just fine," says Merle, laughing. "We simply do things differently here."

"Like having no cars?"

"I believe we are not the only place that has no need for cars," she says.

"I don't know about need," Eric says, "but yes, since gas became so scarce, there are many places that use alternatives."

He wonders why he can't find anything better to talk to her about than gas. Cars. Devices. They are alone now, for the first time. He can almost feel her body heat, she's standing so close.

"You came here by our steamboat, of course."

Eric nods.

And before that, he thinks, I flew in a good old-fashioned plane, chewing thousands of gallons of aviation fuel. And a ticket with a price that proved it.

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Excerpted from Midwinterblood by Marcus Sedgwick. Copyright © 2013 Marcus Sedgwick. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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