Granddad laughs at that. A big hearty boom. “Well, that won’t do. My tools are in the barn. You stay here with Dahy, watch how he prepares the food. I’ll be back.”
It’s the way he says it. So untrustworthy, it’s obvious that he’s lying. He’s so clever. She thinks he’s trying to get away from her, that there’s something or someone in the barn that he needs to hide from her. He’s so insistent on her staying here with Dahy that, of course, her attention leaves the pit and she insists on going to the barn with him. Dahy can help me out of here, lift some of the wood off.
But of course she then contacts her fellow Whistleblowers and tells them to accompany Dahy, to help him gather all the Flawed workers and line them up at the cooking pit.
She’s going to burn me out for everyone to see.
As soon as I hear their footsteps die away and their voices fade, I try to come up for air. Terrified it’s a trick and that Mary May will be standing beside me with a swarm of Whistleblowers, I fight my way out from under the sheet and timber. It’s more difficult than I thought; it’s heavy – Granddad has really piled on the wood.
No longer concerned about the possible trap, I don’t want to suffocate, and so I use both legs to kick up. The timber goes flying. I do the same with my arms, pushing the wood up and out. Some of it lands on my legs and shins, and I gasp with pain. I pull the sheet away and feel the air on my face. I gulp it in hungrily. I climb out of my grave and run towards the woods. As soon as I’m at the edge of the farm that leads into blackness, and safety, I look back. The pit is a mess. If I leave it like that it will be obvious that Granddad hid me and led Mary May away for my escape. He will suffer for my carelessness. They’ll know I’m here and they’ll find me in seconds. I will have no hope escaping from so many Whistleblowers in this wood.
I hear Granddad’s and Mary May’s voices in the distance as they return from the barn. Granddad is speaking loudly, perhaps deliberately, to warn me.
I look to the pit and back to the woods to possible freedom. I have no choice.
I sprint back to the pit, fix the sheet and the strewn timber and moss as quickly and neatly as I can, hearing their footsteps, so close now. My heart thumps wildly; I feel the throbbing in my neck and head. It’s as though I’m moving in slow motion, like this is a nightmare that I can only hope to wake from. But it’s not. It’s happening for real. I see the flash of red of Mary May’s uniform, then I run again. I’ve barely entered the woods and hidden behind the first tree when they come fully into sight. I’m sure they’ve seen me. Terrified, I push my back flat against the trunk, heart pounding, chest heaving.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t just use my lighter,” Mary May says, irritated. She’s annoyed she didn’t find me in the barn.
Granddad laughs, mockingly, which I know will anger her further. “No, no. You’ve got to be authentic. This tradition is thousands of years old. It’s one thing you forcing me to do this before I’d intended to, but if I’m lighting it, I’m lighting it my way.”
He sounds adamant and I know none of it is for real. Though he does like authenticity, he isn’t adverse to matchsticks or lighters; he simply went to the barn to give me a chance to escape.
He starts to light a fire using flint and his penknife. I’ve seen Granddad do this numerous times; he can light a fire in a matter of seconds but he messes around now, playing the part of a confused old man. He’s buying time, either because he knows I’ve escaped and is giving me time to hide or because he’s afraid I’m still under the pile of stones and he doesn’t want to set me on fire. I want to shout to him that it’s okay, that I’m not in the pit, but I can’t, so instead I listen to his agonising wait and steal a glimpse of his face. He’s not so confident now.
“What’s wrong, Cornelius?” Mary May asks slyly. “Afraid to set it on fire?”
Granddad looks lost. Torn. Tortured.
Dahy arrives with more Whistleblowers, not the huge army I’d expected. Two men and one woman, and a line of the eight Flawed farmworkers. They look haggard, as though Dahy has told them what’s about to happen.
“His papers and all the others are in order,” a female Whistleblower says to Mary May.
“Still in order since you checked them yesterday,” Granddad says. “And two days before that, and two days before that, and the three days before that. You know I might report you to the police for intimidation.”
“And we might take you in for aiding a Flawed,” the Whistleblower replies.
“On what grounds?” Granddad demands.
“On the grounds that the only people you seem to hire are Flawed workers, and you house them right here on your land.”
“I’m only doing what’s legal.”
“You’re going beyond what’s legal. Most Flawed get minimum wage. All your workers are on more. They get paid more than some Whistleblowers.”
“What do you think, Flawed?” A male Whistleblower takes over, while Mary May is silent. “Is the old man giving you special treatment? Think you’re able to escape us here?”
Dahy is wise enough to not say anything.
“I don’t let anything get past me here,” says Dan, the Whistleblower in charge of the Flawed farmworkers. This is his patch, his colleague’s suggestions that he lets them have free roam is an insult.
“Light the fire,” Mary May says, ending the feud.
Finally the fire sparks. There are so many Whistleblowers I’m afraid to move in case they hear me. The forest floor is covered in branches, twigs, leaves, everything that can give me away in seconds.
Granddad takes the flame to the moss and I’m afraid that he won’t do it, that he’ll give the game away, that they’ll find me. Have faith in me, Granddad. I’m your flesh and blood; have faith that I got away.
“What are you hiding, old man? Celestine? Is she under there? If she is, don’t you worry, we’ll smoke her out,” Mary May says.
“I told you she’s not here,” Granddad says suddenly, and he throws the flame on to the pit. The moss lights quickly and spreads to the twigs and logs. Dahy looks at Granddad, head hanging weakly; Granddad and the Whistleblowers watch the fire spread, waiting for the sounds of my screams. I watch them thinking that I’m under there, the smugness and satisfaction on the Whistleblowers’ faces. This fills me with so much anger and hatred for them that any thoughts I had of giving myself in, of giving up on my freedom, dissolve immediately. I will not give up; I can’t let them win.
“So what now?” a male Whistleblower asks, disappointed that the show hasn’t delivered.
“Well.” Granddad clears his throat, trying to keep his cool, but I know that he’s rattled. He has either set fire to his granddaughter, or he hasn’t. I could have passed out from lack of air; I could still be under there. The fire is spreading.
“We let it burn until it smoulders, then we pile the food in and cover it with soil.”
“Do it.”
Granddad looks at Mary May, lost, old, hope seeming to be gone. But the hate in him is clearly greater than ever. “Waiting for it to burn to a smoulder will take hours.”
“We have time,” she says.