Chapter Thirty
Catherine
Maximus writes us another letter; it's slightly less friendly than the one before. It talks about how we don't have much time left and so, in the name of the better half, he prays for Andrew's soul to reach a good place. How kind of him.
With only a week left for the Battle, the atmosphere in the 'Duns' (the name our fellow soldiers decided on, finding the entire Greek phrase Ti Sosti Allo too long to keep saying, so they mixed up Diamonds and Guns (the respective symbols for each Society) and started calling this up-turned diamond home 'Duns') is quite light and cheery. It feels as if everyone here has figured they might die and so why waste these last few days moaning over unnecessary issues?
Aunt Marge still stays holed up in her room only allowing me to enter or stay. She tells me about her visions- they come to her as nightmares-forcing her to wake up in the middle of the night, in a puddle of sweat and tears.
I console her, or try my best to, and she accepts what little I manage.
Normally, we then sit down to make a list and discuss what her visions showed and add it to the list of images she has seen.
Till date, all of them have been about war and death- of hers and even of many many soldiers from both sides.
Aunt Marge saw me in her vision too, a Snake was about to slit my neck, but then she woke up.
I might die in the next seven days.
No. Aunt Marge's glimpses are never wrong.
I will die in the next seven days.
And I am ready.
-
I sigh as I push open the door to my room, my writing pad in my hand. I just returned from meeting Aunt Marge. From what it looks like right now, either we lose and everyone on our side dies, or we both lose and everyone dies.
Last night, Aunt Marge saw Peter. Just his face though, and then swirls of water.
"Hey." A voice from inside the room surprises me. I jump back to the space around me instinctively.
"Peter." I say, walking over to where he sits on my bed.
"Where were you?" he asks, leaning back on his hands.
"Aunt Marge." I reply, looking around at my messed up room. The wooden cabinets are swung open, the insides upturned. My desk is nowhere to be seen under the pile of papers and scattered stationary, the dustbin beside it overflowing with waste. Peter follows my eye line.
"What's all that about?"
It's no use lying to him. After everything that happened, I don't think I can ever again.
"She's getting visions. I'm trying to figure out what it all means."
"Think I can see that?" He asks, pointing towards the yellow pad in my hands.
I hand it over to him "Sure."
He takes it and flips through the pages, reading everything carefully. Without looking up at me, he says, "Ester and I had ice cream last night."
I know how brittle their relationship is. This is a good sign. "That's nice."
He opens his mouth to reply, a small smile playing at his lips, when he stops and closes his mouth. He frowns at the tiny page in front of me. Seven days. He pulls it closer to his eyes, as if the words would change. I look over at the other end of the room. "Peter-"
"Did she see the end?" He asks, still staring at the sentence.
"No, she woke up."
"Catherine, I won't let this happen."
"Her visions are never wrong. Peter, I'm okay with-" before I finish, he pulls me towards him and kisses me hard, deep.
"I won't let this happen." He says, and puts his lips back on mine. I want to believe him, to trust his words but I can't.
We continue making out.
-
Aunt Marge's nightmares have found a new target and I now I wake gasping in the middle of the night, and find myself making through time with repeated cups of coffee, waiting for morning.
Fortunately, since the weekend got over, there has been no time to think about death as we hurriedly start packing and setting up everything for our journey to the battlefield.
We leave for the final war tomorrow and if you think your Monday's are busy, you should have seen us rushing around frantically in the Duns.
As per our calculations and sealed deal, the entire war should be over in a maximum of three days, the winner of each day determined by the number of soldiers dead on the field.
As I push some clothes and brushes into a small bag, my hands are shaking, not with worry, but with excitement. I am excited about dying. It can't possibly mean anything- can it?
I smile as I try forcefully zipping up the bag, thinking of the cold knife touching my neck, cutting throughout- clean, sharp, and I touch my throat with my hands tentatively, caressing it smoothly.
I shrug the tiny bag onto my shoulder on having successfully shut it, and looking around one last time at my room, I turn to exit into the hall, locking the door behind me.
Locking the memories, the nightmares, the thoughts, and the ideas. Locking away my past, in a way, locking away my life- and I make no movement to open it again.
Peter stands waiting for me in the hallway, leaning against the wall, wearing a white t-shirt and black ripped jeans, a belt making its way through the loops. I roll my eyes.
"Are you sure you're going to war?" I ask him, walking up to where he stands.
He tilts my chin up and teasingly pecks at my lips for just a second. "As far as I know, I'm going to my girlfriend's funeral." His face drops for a second, looking foreign, far away, but then it comes back to his original sapphire eyes, his pale pink lips, and I find myself staring at him for a while before I notice he wants me to reply to him.
But what can I say except that it's true.
He pulls my hand into his and we make our way to the entry of the Duns.
-
"It's exactly a day's journey from here. So, if we leave today immediately after this meeting we will reach the ground by about 9:30 tomorrow. If necessary, we will make a stop every five hours. There will be one camp located midway from here and the field and if we ever need any resources, we will contact them. You'll all know your positions, the formats, the rules- and we must bid by them." Andrew pauses for a breath, "Even if the others do not. We are not like them. We are the good people, and Good always, and I repeat always triumphs evil." He stops dramatically and a cheer goes around the crowd.
The noise- applause, screams, cheers- is deafening, and for the second time that morning, I wonder if they, if we, really know what we're getting ourselves into.
Andrew's speech gets out of my focus as I start pondering over my entire life, my parents, Shailene, meeting Peter, everyone, everything and I realise that there is little that I regret.
I am pulled out of my thoughts as the crowd uniformly surges through the doors of the Duns and rushes out to their allocated carts. We too will be riding in a cart just like them as written in the deal- no bullet proof cars for us I guess.
I wait patiently for the majority of the people to exit and then follow the others outside.
The carts are bleached ocher and a pale peach. They are all identical, with their connections coated with a layer of gray iron, plastered with perfected brown painting to not give away the metal beneath- just in case.
There is a single wooden platform- a little long for a regular wagon, though- and they are already filled up with our belongings and some food for the journey- each carriage their own.
They are pulled by two horses each and there are about a thousand lined up one beside the others in parallel lines like a typical supermarket parking lot.
I climb into the second one with Peter, Max, Richard, Lucas and the man handling the horses. Everyone calls him 'Joe'.
Ester, Albert, William, Oliver, Andrew and Aunt Marge- who insisted on riding with Andrew- got into the first cart with their 'driver'.
There is a final head count, baggage check, supplies check, time check, and then, we are off. Off to get killed.