CHAPTER FIVE #2
“There we go!” he said as I planted both feet on the ground. “Now follow me.”
He was off again, coasting leisurely around the road to give me time to catch up.
I pushed away from the curb and pedaled after him, muscle memory kicking in.
I had almost forgotten what it felt like to ride a bike, to do something physical for once.
The days of long rides around the city with Irene felt like a distant memory, and yet suddenly not so distant.
I felt a smile beginning to spread across my face as the wind gently whipped loose strands of hair against my cheeks.
My smile faltered at what Cato said next.
“To answer your question,” he called over his shoulder. “I wish we were headed somewhere else.”
“Whose house is this?” I asked quietly. I wasn’t sure why I felt it necessary to keep my voice low, but somehow the situation felt like it warranted it.
On the other side of a well-kept lawn was a ranch-style house.
The white siding looked like it had received a fresh coat of paint sometime in the last year or two, and the same could be said for the front door, which was a pleasant chestnut.
Windows covered most of the front of the house, and there were no curtains to block the view inside.
As if whoever lived there had pulled them back to let in every possible ray of sunshine.
“The name isn’t important,” Cato replied, in a tone that told me it was. “What matters is what’s inside the house.”
He began walking his bicycle up the driveway, and I followed.
Driveways weren’t much use to us since cars—along with buses, trains, and airplanes—were not a usable mode of transportation. Our lack of reliable fuel and consistent access to electricity ensured that. But some houses that were built in Pre-Awakening times still had them.
We parked our bicycles in the shade against the side of the house, then strolled up the front walkway. A clean white cement path that, like the yard, gave the impression that it was well-tended.
When we reached the front door, Cato pulled out his keyring and began flipping through an intimidating collection of keys. “This may take a moment,” he joked.
While he was busy with that, I tried not to think of the last time I had stood on the front stoop of a house.
Tried not to remember stepping through the front door and almost running right into Irene. Her face red and dripping with sweat, her bike tossed in the grass in a hurry.
Tried not to remember the whirlwind of confusion and terror as we packed a bag.
How I still had no idea what was happening or where we were going when the Enforcers set fire to our home.
How Irene tried to break down the door so we could escape through the back yard, and her shriek when she dislocated her shoulder.
The memories were coming too hard and too fast.
I focused on steadying my breath, calling on my five senses. Dragging myself back to the present, even as my mind tried to resist.
I made myself see Cato standing in front of me, his shirt slightly damp with sweat from our bike ride. The brown door ahead of him.
I smelled the earthy scent of naturally growing grass and bushes and trees. Things that only existed in the concrete labyrinth of the Knowledge Center when they were carefully cultivated.
I heard the sounds of children playing in the yards of neighboring homes.
Children playing just outside the Knowledge Center, children playing here in this neighborhood…
I suppose it should have been encouraging to see that so many couples were comfortable enough in our situation and confident enough in our safety to reproduce.
I tasted only sweat, but that was preferable to the bile that had been rising in my throat only a moment before.
I touched the white paint of the siding with my left hand, skimming my fingers across the smooth surface. Through the soles of my shoes, I could feel the solid ground beneath me. Holding me upright.
I inhaled a breath, held it for ten seconds, then let it out. With it, I let out all the unwelcome thoughts. I nearly jumped at the click of the key in the lock and tried to school my face into a mask of polite curiosity as I followed Cato over the threshold.
I gasped.
The inside of the home was unremarkable enough. An open floor plan with ceramic tile, a white kitchen, and simple but functional furniture. But what immediately caught my attention, impossible to miss, were the books.
So many books.
Not only on the walls, packed tightly into built-in shelves that covered all available wall space, but also piled high on every surface.
The end tables that flanked either side of the cushiony sofa, the glass coffee table, the dining room table on the far side of the house, even the ground.
Outside of the Library, I had never seen so many books in one place.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” The awe in Cato’s voice matched what I felt inside.
“Are these yours?”
“I wish.” There was that note in his voice again. Something heavy.
“Whose are they?” I demanded, no longer willing to accept his short, cryptic answers. This was a personal library the likes of which I could only dream of. The likes of which most everyone in Cyllene could only dream of. I had to know who had the pleasure of owning it.
And who in their right mind would be so bold, so brave, so fuck-you in their approach as to hoard illegal books right under The Council’s noses.
“They belong,” Cato said. “To someone who doesn’t get to enjoy them anymore, unfortunately.” After a pause, he added, “Someone who won’t be returning to them.”
I could feel my face fall. “So someone who passed away, then?”
“No.”
I raised my brows at him.
He huffed out a sigh. “The books belong to someone who The Council had to release outside the walls yesterday. Someone who obviously didn’t want to follow the law, or care to understand how Cyllene’s laws protect each and every one of us.”
Cato was always reading people’s tics and the nuances of their behavior, usually in a way that was discreet. But his warm brown eyes searched mine openly, gauging my reaction to his words.
I was trying my best to project acceptance and neutrality.
And I must have failed miserably at it because he frowned.
“Things aren’t like they used to be,” he went on.
“Before my time. And long before your time. There were jails, prisons…ways of keeping someone confined. Our government could afford to do that. Just keep someone in a cell, feed them, clothe them, provide them with life’s essentials.
We don’t have the means to do that anymore.
When someone does something unacceptable, we have to do something about it, right?
You know this, Maila. People can’t just do whatever they want. ”
I bit my lip.
There were few things in life that I wouldn’t have given to have this many books.
Even from a distance, I could see that the genres were many and varied.
The weathered bindings of old biographies.
The dark, ominous jackets of mysteries. The swirling, intricate fonts gracing the covers of romances.
Without even knowing this person, I understood that “devastating” was probably not a big enough word to describe the loss of this private world of books that he had so lovingly built.
“Our job today is to divide all of these into two piles,” Cato explained, already starting to sift through a stack on the counter.
“Books that should be transported to the Library, books that should be disposed of, and books that we can make available to the public. The Enforcers will be by tomorrow to begin moving everything out of the house, including the books, so we don’t need to worry about actually hauling them anywhere.
Just separating them.” When I remained silent, he added, “Making some of these books available to the public was my idea. Yes, we probably won’t have copies of most of these, and we have to protect what’s contained in each of them.
” He grabbed a book at random from the pile and held it up for emphasis.
“But you and I won’t be around forever. We need to make sure we’re instilling a love of books in the next generation.
Otherwise, who will protect the books when we’re gone? ”
I was beyond curious to know what books, if any, The Council was going to be willing to make available to the public when this was all said and done.
But something about the sincerity in Cato’s words had me opening my mouth.
“Cato, do you ever think about the people Outside? How they get by? What they go through in order to survive?”
He set down the book. “I have two answers for that.”
I dipped my head in an almost imperceptible nod, willing him to continue.
“My first answer is yes. I do think about them. I think about them when I’m enjoying the safety of the walls.
When I’m reaping the benefits of thousands of years’ worth of knowledge in the Knowledge Center.
And when I’m kissing my wife and kids goodnight, taking comfort in knowing that they have a roof over their heads and food on their table every day. ”
His throat bobbed.
“My second answer is—don’t ever ask me that question again.”