I glance up at the gray sky and wonder when it will start raining. I hope it’s not while we’re out. I’m certainly no expert in illnesses but I have a feeling being outside in the rain isn’t the best thing for someone who looks as awful as Zen does.
When we arrive in the city, Zen steers the cart into the marketplace and pulls Blackthorn to a halt. I sit paralyzed in my seat. Trying to take in the chaotic scene that is playing out in front of me.
I’m starting to feel like I left my stomach back on the farm.
Zen seems oblivious to my reaction. He’s too busy marveling. Mumbling something about how it looks exactly like it does in the movies. I don’t even know what a movie is so I don’t share his admiration. All I feel is sick. And a burning desire to turn around and sprint as fast as my genetically enhanced legs can carry me back down the road that brought us here. At top speed, I could probably be back on the farm in less than ten minutes.
I’m not sure what I expected to see. The only other towns or cities I’ve been to are Wells Creek and Los Angeles. But this city is nothing like either of those. Instead of stores and buildings, there are hundreds of little stalls set up along the perimeter of the square. Each one selling something different. Like meat, cloth, vegetables, bread, grain, and live animals in wooden cages. People are milling about, calling out orders, and haggling over prices. One woman walks past us pulling a rope attached to a goat, while another passes in the other direction holding a dead chicken by its feet. I assume it was recently alive due to the fact that it still has its feathers and its eyes are wide open, revealing the same terrified look I saw on the faces of the bodies floating in the ocean with me after the plane crash.
There are no markings on the ground or signs on poles to direct traffic. But somehow the varieties of different-sized wheeled contraptions pulled by horses and oxen manage to weave effortlessly around one another, as though they can read the oncoming drivers’ thoughts.
Zen hops down from the cart, taking a moment to steady himself before starting to unload the produce from the back, stacking the crates of apples and pears. I can tell he’s struggling and I quickly jump down and walk around to help him.
As I work, I can’t help but wince at the foul smell in the air. It’s much worse than the odor in the Pattinsons’ barn when the pig sty is due to be cleaned. I scrunch up my nose, lean in close to Zen, and whisper, “What is that?”
Zen nods, letting me know he smells it, too. “No indoor plumbing. People toss their waste into the street.”
The thought makes me want to retch but I somehow manage to avoid it.
“I think we’ll get used to it,” Zen says hopefully. “Everyone here seems to have.”
After the last crate has been unloaded, Zen points to a small gap between two of the stalls on the other side of the road. “I think we should set up there.” He turns to me and winks. “If we sell all this stuff fast enough, maybe we can even go exploring for a little while.”
I nod, acting like the idea excites me as much as it seems to excite him, even though just standing here in the middle of all this commotion is setting my entire body on edge.
“We should really see Shakespeare performed at the Globe,” he says, then leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “before it burns down in four years.”
“It burns down?”
He nods. “Unfortunately. A cannon sets fire to the roof during a production of Henry VIII. They rebuild it a year later, though.”
“You seem to know a lot about Shakespeare,” I point out.
Zen picks up one of the crates. He seems to exert an obvious amount of effort but he still manages a crooked grin as he says, “I researched him for you. After you read ‘Sonnet 116,’ you had to know everything there was to know about him.”
Despite my frayed nerves, this makes me smile. “Then we definitely should go see one of his plays when we’re finished.”
He nods and nudges his chin toward the cart. “It doesn’t look like we can park here. Why don’t you walk Blackthorn to that hitching post over there and then help me carry everything.”
I notice how he struggles to balance the crate in his arms, the unnaturally thick layer of sweat that appears on his upper lip, and the way his face seems to be losing color by the second. I nibble nervously on the tip of my finger. “Actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and helpful, “maybe you should tie up the horse and I’ll start moving the crates over.”
Zen lets out a stutter of a laugh that quickly turns into a violent cough, causing him to nearly drop the box. “Sera,” he says sternly, “you have to get over your fear of that horse someday.”