“How can it be the whole town?” She looks for a second or two more then hands the binos to me. “What kind of sense does that make?”
“You got me.” The night setting on the binos turns the valley and all that’s in it a bright green. I see horses galloping down the hill into the main part of town, shooting their rifles on the way, I see the people of Farbranch shooting back but mostly running, mostly falling, mostly dying. The Prentisstown army don’t seem interested in taking prisoners.
“We have to get out of here, Todd,” Viola says.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m still looking thru the binos.
With everything green, it’s hard to make out faces. I press a few more buttons on the binos till I find the ones that take me in closer.
The first person I see for sure is Mr Prentiss Jr, in the lead, firing his rifle into the air when he don’t have nothing else to shoot at. Then there’s Mr Morgan and Mr Collins chasing some Farbranch men into the storage barns, firing their rifles after them. Mr O’Hare’s there, too, and more of the Mayor’s usual suspects on horseback, Mr Edwin, Mr Henratty, Mr Sullivan. And there’s Mr Hammar, the smile on his face showing up green and evil even from this distance as he fires his rifle into the backs of fleeing women hustling away small children and I have to look away or throw up the nothing I had for dinner.
The men on foot march their way into town. The first one I reckernize is, of all people, Mr Phelps the storekeeper. Which is weird cuz he never seemed army-like at all. And there’s Dr Baldwin. And Mr Fox. And Mr Cardiff who was our best milker. And Mr Tate who had the most books to burn when the Mayor outlawed them. And Mr Kearney who milled the town’s wheat and who always spoke softly and who made wooden toys for each Prentisstown boy’s birthday.
What are these men doing in an army?
“Todd,” Viola says, pulling at my arm.
The men marching don’t look none too happy, I spose. Grim and cold and scary in a different way from Mr Hammar, like they’re lacking all feeling.
But they’re still marching. They’re still shooting. They’re still kicking down doors.
“That’s Mr Gillooly,” I say, binos pressed to my eyes. “He can’t even butcher his own meat.”
“Todd,” Viola says and I feel her backing away from the bushes. “Let’s go.”
What’s going on? Sure, Prentisstown was as awful a place as you could ever not wanna paint it but how can it suddenly be an army? There’s plenty of Prentisstown men who’re bad thru and thru but not all of them. Not all. And Mr Gillooly with a rifle is a sight so wrong it almost hurts my eyes just to look at it.
And then of course I see the answer.
Mayor Prentiss, not even holding a gun, just one hand on his horse’s reins, the other at his side, riding into town like he’s out for an evening canter. He’s watching the rout of Farbranch as if it was a vid and not a very interesting one at that, letting everyone else do the work but so obviously in charge no one would even think of asking him to break a sweat.
How can he make so many men do what he wants?
And is he bulletproof that he can ride so fearlessly?
“Todd,” Viola says behind me. “I swear, I’ll leave without you.”
“No, you won’t,” I say. “One more second.”
Cuz I’m looking from face to face now, ain’t I? I’m going from Prentisstown man to Prentisstown man cuz even if they’re marching into town and are gonna find out soon enough that neither me nor Viola are there and are gonna have to come this way after us, I gotta know.
I gotta know.
Face to face to face as they march and shoot and burn. Mr Wallace, Mr Asbjornsen, Mr St James, Mr Belgraves, Mr Smith the Older, Mr Smith the Younger, Mr Smith With Nine Fingers, even Mr Marjoribanks, wobbling and teetering but marching marching marching. Prentisstown man after Prentisstown man after Prentisstown man, my heart clenching and burning at each one I can identify.
“They ain’t there,” I say, almost to myself.
“Who isn’t?” Viola says.
“Ain’t!” Manchee barks, licking at his tail.
They ain’t there.
Ben and Cillian ain’t there.
Which, of course, is grand, ain’t it? Of course they ain’t part of an army of killers. Of course they ain’t, even when every other Prentisstown man is. They wouldn’t be. Not never, not no how, no matter what.
Good men, great men, both, even Cillian.
But if that’s true, then that means the other is true, too, don’t it?
If they ain’t there, then that means once and for all.
And there’s yer lesson.
There ain’t nothing good that don’t got real bad waiting to follow it.
I hope they put up the best fight ever.
I take the binos from my face and I look down and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and I turn and I hand Viola back the binos and I say, “Let’s go.”
She takes them from me, squirming a little like she’s itching to leave, but then she says, “I’m sorry,” so she musta seen it in my Noise.
“Nothing that ain’t already happened,” I say, talking to the ground and readjusting the rucksack. “C’mon, before I put us in danger any worse.”
I take off up the path towards the top of the hill, keeping my head down, motoring fast, Viola after me, Manchee trying to keep himself from biting at his tail as we run.
Viola matches my speed before we get far at all. “Did you see . . . him?” she says, between breaths.
“Aaron?”
She nods.
“No,” I say. “Come to think of it, no, I didn’t. And you’d think he’d be out in front.”
We’re quiet for a minute as we hurry on our way and wonder what that means.
The road on this side of the valley is wider and we’re doing our best to keep to the darker side of it as it twists and turns up the hill. Our only lights are the moons but they’re bright enough to cast our shadows running along the road which is too bright when yer running away. I never seen no night vision binos in Prentisstown but I didn’t see no army neither so we’re both crouching as we run without either of us saying that we will. Manchee’s running on ahead of us, his nose to the ground, barking, “This way! This way!” as if he knows any better than us where we’re going.
Then at the top of the hill, the road forks.
Which just figures.
“You gotta be kidding,” I say.