The Last Murder at the end of the World

SEVEN

As I do every morning, I lift curfew at 7 a.m. precisely, darkness giving way to sudden, shocking daylight.

In their dormitories, the villagers yawn in their rusted beds, stretching their limbs, their first thoughts beginning to drum against my consciousness like rainfall on a tin roof. They swing their legs out of bed and bury their heads in their hands, surprised by how tired they feel, and how much their muscles ache. There are oil blots on their arms that weren’t there last night. Their knuckles are singed. Their sandals aren’t where they left them when they kicked them off.

Three generations of villagers have lived in these barracks, and slept in these beds, and they’ve always awoken to the same mysteries. Thanks to Emory’s questioning nature, this is the first generation that knows the elders can rouse them from their sleep after curfew, but they don’t know why and would never have the temerity to ask.

The need for secrecy is strange, though. In the quiet of their thoughts, they’ll acknowledge that, if nothing else. After all, there’s nothing they wouldn’t do willingly if asked. They want to be of service.

Shaking off their unease, they dress hurriedly and open their shutters to the crisp morning light, putting aside the night’s oddities.

Soon, a breakfast of fresh fruit, juice, bread, ricotta and honey will be served on the long tables in the exercise yard. They’ll have an hour to eat, before it’s time to pick up their tools and head to the farms. Survival in the morning; service in the afternoon; and celebration in the evening is their routine. It’s a knot so familiar that none of them notice how tightly it binds them, and how impossible it is for them to undo it.